


Mile High

by papofglencoe



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:03:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papofglencoe/pseuds/papofglencoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Katniss Everdeen boards Pan Em Flight 1213, the last thing she expects is to be flying a mile high with Peeta Mellark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. General Boarding

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU. Explicit sexual situations and language. 
> 
> With many thanks to my amazing betas and friends myusernamehere and hutchhitched for keeping me honest and just being the best, generally speaking. All remaining mistakes, errors, artistic liberties, and flights of fancy are mine. 
> 
> For dandelion-sunset. Happy birthday, chica! You are a goddess. <3
> 
> Come say hi to me on Tumblr! Username: papofglencoe.

The gate _would_ be at the end of the terminal, wouldn’t it? It’s the Murphy’s law of travel: when you have ten minutes to catch a connecting flight, you will be required by the laws of physics to catapult yourself through an airport roughly the size of the Milky Way like you’re some kind of frenzied comet sloughing parts of itself off as it rockets through space.

During my marathon to the gate, I drop my neck pillow three times on the floor, and since I’m expected to put that thing against my face, and I have no idea of knowing exactly what sort of flesh-eating diseases might be lurking on the tile, I decide to leave my fallen comrade behind. No, that sad little pillow can’t help me now, and so I let it go. I only drop the handle of my roller bag twice, which is a noteworthy achievement since my palms are coated in a pervasive sheen of sweat.

I have to make this flight. _Everything_ depends on it.

I dodge a cluster of unsupervised school children and try not to trip over a squalling toddler in the process. Then I bob and weave my way as best I can through the endless crowd of travelers who are oblivious to the etiquette of moving sidewalks (stand on the right, walk on the left, people!). Every anonymous, nondescript corridor is stocked with the same rotating cast of restaurants and shops: McDonalds, Starbucks, Hudson News, Auntie Anne’s, Burger King. Lather, rinse, repeat. It’s disorienting, and part of me panics that I’m headed in the wrong direction and will never know it. I’ll spend the rest of my damn life in this airport, trying to find my way out.

I’m breathless and panting by the time I make it to the gate, my bag trailing behind me, and my blood pressure spikes as I take in the sea of empty chairs and the gate attendant fastening the door to the jetway.

“Wait!” I call out feebly, running up to her. “Is this Pan Em Flight 1213 to LaGuardia?” The words are little more than a wheeze sputtered into the din of the busy airport, and I bend over, placing both hands on my knees, mentally berating myself for being so horribly out of shape. When I get back to Seattle, I’m hitting the gym at _least_ once. Maybe twice. That should do the trick.

The attendant turns around slowly, deliberately, as if she is struggling to maintain her placid demeanor. She pats her bright orange wig with both hands, adjusting it carefully, as she eyes me with disdain.

“Why, yes it is,” she answers in a haughty tone, “and would you happen to be the Miss Everdeen we’d been paging for the past _twenty_ minutes?” She over-enunciates the “twenty” in some affected accent that, in my mind, I identify as Valley.

I nod by way of answer and stoop to fetch my boarding pass out of my messenger bag. Without looking at her, I ask warily, “Why, you didn’t give my seat away, did you?”

She sighs in an imitation of sympathy and clucks at me. “Unfortunately, Miss Everdeen, the airline _has_ released your seat to a passenger on standby. All seats in coach are fully booked, and as you know, the airline policy states that if a passenger is not–”

I cut her off, fire flashing in my eyes. “Look, Miss…” I glance at her name tag, “ _Trinket_ ,” I spit emphatically. “I don’t care what the damn policy states. I have a reservation for this flight, and my ass is on it. You do whatever you need to do to make that happen.” I peek around her as covertly as possible to make sure that the plane is, in fact, still there.

It is.

Good. That’s half the battle won.

Miss Trinket heaves a sigh as if she doesn’t have to deal with this same exact problem two dozen times a day and that I am, uniquely, the most tiresome person in the world. I plant myself in front of her, arms crossed defiantly, as she clicks away at her computer.

“Well, the odds are you in your favor today, Miss Everdeen. We have one seat left in first class.”

She looks me up and down appraisingly, taking in the sight of my grubby Converse sneakers, my oversized Huskies hoodie, and the ratty cotton shorts that I wear every time I fly. The way I’m dressed is a paean to comfort, a complete affront to anything that could possibly pass as fashion. I don’t know what she expects from me; the flight from LAX to LaGuardia is almost six hours long. I don’t want to claw uncomfortably at my clothes the entire time just so that my tits look good to some hungover businessman who’s gone from home so often he can’t remember what his wife’s face looks like. She tuts disapprovingly at what she sees. There’s nothing about me that says “first class,” but since there’s everything about me that says "I will gut you like a fish if you don't give me that fucking ticket," she toggles a few keys and then begrudgingly hands me my new boarding pass.

It's stamped _Seat 2B_.

I clutch my boarding pass in my fist like it’s the winning ticket in the Mega Millions. I've never flown first class before, and as a struggling, poor-as-the-damn-dirt singer, I'm not likely to again anytime soon. I’m going to have to make my one shot count, so I plan to drink no less than three complimentary cocktails, and I’m going to try my damndest to score a second free cookie, too.

As she reopens the jetway door for me and I pass her, I call back over my shoulder, simply to goad her, "Um, excuse me, but is this a window seat because I’d really prefer one with a view?"

I smirk as I watch her face flush several shades of scarlet. She huffs and snaps, "A little gratitude would be appreciated.” She recomposes herself, no doubt channeling every corporate customer service mantra that she knows, and adds in a sickly sweet tone, “Have a pleasant flight.” As she locks the door behind me, I hear her muttering under her breath, "Well, I never. Such appalling manners..."

A friendly-faced flight attendant with flowing ginger hair greets me at the end of the jetway.

“You made it just in time,” she says with a smile so sweet and genuine I can’t help but grin back. She holds her hand out for my boarding pass, which I show to her. She gives it a cursory glance and hands it back to me. “2B is on the aisle, right next to the gentleman with blonde hair. Welcome aboard.”

I step onto the plane and turn the corner, freezing instantly when I spot a messy mop of yellow curls peeking over the headrest of the seat in front of him. I’d know that tousled golden hair anywhere. Fuck me. _Not him_.

Before she disappears into the galley, the flight attendant gives me a gentle tap on the shoulder and asks softly, “Miss, could please take your seat so that we can push back? You’re right there.” She points patiently like it isn’t the most obvious fact in the world that the number “2” comes after “1” or that it is the last empty seat on the plane.

Mortification doesn’t begin to cover how I feel right now. I’m exhausted from a poor night’s sleep and my early morning flight into LAX. I’m dressed like a hobo with shorts that have “PINK” emblazoned across the ass in all caps. I’m disheveled and sweaty from my race through the airport, and of all the planes in all the towns, in all the world, _he_ had to be on mine.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and walk toward my seat. Maybe he won’t recognize me, I try to console myself, or if he does, maybe he won’t remember my name, and he’ll be too embarrassed to talk to me because of it. I mean, it's been seven years since we graduated high school, and it’s not like we ever really talked to each other back then. I just pined after him hopelessly for four years, that’s all. And then there was only that one time we...

As I approach, those piercing blue eyes look up and lock on me. My heart hammers so furiously in my chest I’m seriously at risk of passing out. My hands are trembling, and all my limbs feel like melting rubber pooling to the floor.

I think I want to die.

I make it to the spot next to my chair and attempt to hoist my roller bag above my head to stow it in the overhead compartment, but this is virtually impossible considering that it weighs half of what I do, and my arms have become about as useful as a T-Rex’s. I try once to lift the bag, but my arms buckle, and the bag swings back down to the floor in a humiliating thud.

He unfastens his belt buckle hastily and stands, moving toward the aisle. “Here,” he offers. “Let me get that for you.”

I step back, my eyes refusing to meet his. As he stands, I take in the sight of him. Time has been so unbelievably good to him. I thought that he was built back in high school, but the man standing in front of me now is a sculpted work of art. He’s broad-shouldered and strong, lean and muscular, and I gape at the ghosting of stubble along the sharp line of his jaw. He makes short work of stowing my bag, and when he lifts it casually above his head, I drink in the sight of the muscles in his bulging forearms pressing against the rolled sleeves of his unbuttoned flannel shirt. I can see through his close-fitting t-shirt that he’s sporting a six pack. As if he needed to get any better looking. Christ.

The next six hours are going to be the most excruciating agony for me. I have to sit in awkward silence, shoulder-to-massive-shoulder, next to the person that my teenage self wanted to screw into oblivion before marrying and then bearing his beautiful children.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and when he hears the sound of my voice, his eyebrows shoot up and a wide smile breaks across his face.

“It _is_ you!” he exclaims, and before I know it, Peeta Mellark’s arms are wrapped around my waist, holding me tightly to him in an enthusiastic hug. I hesitate for a moment and then wrap my arms around his neck. I bask in the feeling of his warmth, radiating into me, and the unfamiliar sensation of his strong, solid body pressed against mine.

It feels good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go. I don’t know if it’s because he’s the first man to touch me in over two years or if it’s because it’s Peeta Fucking Mellark, but my body rebels against me, and I can feel my nipples grow taut from want as my breasts brush lightly against his chest. I take a steadying breath, but the way he smells–like a walking pantry, a medley of spices and delicious seasoning–has the opposite effect.

It feels like we only hug for a fraction of a second before it’s already over. He pulls away, placing his hands on both my elbows to hold me in place. Locking those clear blue eyes on me again, he says, “Katniss Everdeen, I _thought_ it was you, but I wasn’t absolutely positive until I heard your voice.”

Wait, _what_? How and why would Peeta Mellark know me by the sound of my voice?

I smile uncertainly at him, my stomach a roiling pit of nerves warring with the hundreds of fluttering butterflies–or possibly birds. The sensation is so violent, clamoring to escape, and all I can manage to murmur is, “Hi, Peeta.” It’s the first time I’ve ever spoken his name to him, and it sounds like the sweetest and most delicious dessert on my tongue. I savor every letter and crave more of its taste.

He shoots me a crooked grin when he hears me speak his name. “It’s probably a good thing that you remember me, or else I have a feeling I’d be getting tackled by an air marshal right now.” He laughs good-naturedly. “Man, it’s good to see you,” he adds, completely oblivious to the curious looks we’re getting from the nearby passengers. One of them, a paunchy, middle-aged man, takes a draw from a tarnished silver hip flask (how did he sneak _that_ past security, I wonder) and rolls his eyes, unimpressed by our reunion. The passenger next to him, a wickedly attractive man with bronze hair and sparkling emerald eyes, shoots me a suggestive smirk as if to say he can see exactly how badly I want in Peeta Mellark's pants. This does anything but calm me. I must be so fucking obvious.

I laugh shyly and nod. “It’s good to see you, too.” I marvel silently that in the past thirty seconds, I have already far eclipsed the number of words I had the courage to utter to him in all of high school, which were, respectively, “okay” and “bye.”

This has gone so much better than I could have imagined. Not only does he remember me, which is shocking in itself, but he actually seems excited to see me. I don’t understand it, but the 14-year-old girl inside me squeals to herself in delight and dies happily, spasming on the ground in a convulsing heap of nerves. I can’t wait to land in New York and call my best friend Madge to tell her about this. _Life made_ , I think. Peeta was always a well-liked guy in school, and although he’s probably like this with every old acquaintance, it still feels good to know that he’s pleased to see me, that he ever thought enough of me to know my name, much less remember me now.

Peeta shakes his head once as if to clear it, and then looks away, eyes darting around at our surroundings.

He laughs and rakes his right hand through the back of his hair bashfully. “Oh, shit. I guess we better take a seat.” He moves quickly back into his chair and pats my seat, encouraging me to join him.

I take a deep, cleansing breath to calm myself and sit gingerly next to him, buckling in and nervously fiddling with the end of the strap to hide that my hands are shaking.

He turns his shoulders to face me squarely, and he immediately starts to talk. “So where did you disappear to? Do you live in L.A. too?” His tone is conversational, but there’s also a note of remonstrance there, as if he had been disappointed or upset somehow that he’d lost track of me. This is ridiculous because I have no reason to believe that he, or anyone else, had been keeping track of me in the first place.

I shrug, not sure how to answer his first question, but I feel like I need to defend myself somehow. “I didn’t _disappear_ … I mean… I went to the University of Washington for college, and I stayed in Seattle.”

Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems crestfallen. “So you’re still living in Seattle?”

I nod, puzzled by his expression. I don’t know why he would care.

He shifts gears. “But I mean… you say you didn’t disappear, but it seems like no one that I’ve spoken to from school has seen or heard from you since we graduated.” His eyes are sparkling at me as he winks. "But maybe I just don't know any of the right people."

Wait, has Peeta Mellark been asking about me? I’m growing more confused by the minute, and I’m overwhelmed and uncomfortable by these baseless, hopeful thoughts that keep darting into my mind. There’s no chance, none at all, that Peeta is being anything more than politely attentive to me. He was always known for being a personable guy–not that I would know from extensive first-hand experience or anything, but he’s certainly being Mr. Congeniality now.

I look down at my hands, unsure of what to say. I’ve never been good at small talk or making and keeping friends. Peeta must sense my discomfort because he amends his statement. “I just know that you’re one of the people that folks wonder about, that’s all I mean. You’re not on Facebook or anything, right?”

I smile ruefully at him. "No. I never really saw much point to that. For me, anyway. I keep in touch with a few of my old friends, but otherwise I can't imagine why anyone else would want to know the banal details of my life." I steeple my fingers together and stare down at them, but I can sense his eyes boring a hole through me.

"Well, I think you can afford to be a _little_ more imaginative than that. People do care, you know," he says, a coaxing timbre to his voice.

His tone is so persuasive that I consider signing up for Facebook on the fucking spot, resigning myself to a lifetime of Candy Crush requests, ultrasound photos depicting what the inside of random acquaintances' uteruses look like, and inflammatory political status updates from drunk uncles I haven't seen since I was five just so that I can friend Peeta Mellark and stare at his gorgeous face every day. I'm sure it wouldn't ruin my life at _all_ creeping on my old high school crush from hundreds of miles away.

I don't really know what to say, so I sit there in an awkward silence trying to puzzle through everything. If only I were better with words, I'd find some way to pass off his sweet comment with a joke. As it is, I can only sit there speculating who from high school would actually care whether I disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle or fell off the side of Mount Everest. I can't think of anyone other than the couple friends I've made a point to keep in close contact with.

“So… what did you study in college?” he prods, trying to keep the conversation from stalling.

I hesitate before I answer. This is where people scoff at me, belittle me with some disparaging half-joke about wasted time and money, but he’s looking at me so attentively, so earnestly, that I decide I can trust him to at least keep any unfavorable opinion he might have to himself. “I majored in music,” I reply, biting at my lip nervously. My eyes make a quick survey of his face, tracing the path of the faint brown freckles that span the bridge of his nose and cheeks. They look soft and sun-kissed, and maybe it's because they're exactly the color of caramel, but I want to lick them to see if they taste as sweet as they look.

His eyebrows quirk up, but not in surprise. He looks impressed, and when he responds my heart beats furiously at his awed tone. “Of course you did,” he says. “I’m so glad to hear you pursued that.”

His reaction makes me blush, and when he sees me squirming uncomfortably from the praise, he clarifies, “You always had such an amazing voice. I mean, _everyone_ knew it… I think it would have been a waste not to do anything with talent like that.”

He’s being so kind that it makes me want to crawl on his lap and lavish him with kisses–although, I admit, that was something I wanted to do the second I laid eyes on him... among other things. I think I could have gone my entire life not knowing the full extent of Peeta’s wonderfulness. I hate whatever horrid woman gets to benefit from it on a daily basis. I can’t keep listening to his thoughtful questions and compliments; there’s nothing behind them, and so I deflect the conversation back to him before I do something awkward and uncalled for like profess my undying love for him.

“So where did you go to school?” I ask.

“USC.” He pauses a beat, dragging both of his hands mindlessly along his muscular thighs, and continues. “I double-majored in business, because of my parents' bakery, you know... and art.”

“That’s quite a combo,” I laugh.

He grins and rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it. My oldest brother, Graham, ended up inheriting the bakery when my dad retired, but he calls me for advice sometimes, so that worked out well. What I'd really like to do though, what I'm saving up for, is to open my own art gallery–to use the little talent I have to showcase everybody else's."

I smile at him appreciatively. He's a fascinating blend of humility and ambition. "Where would you open this gallery of yours?" I press.

He drags a hand along his jaw, considering the question, and as his hand moves down its length I can hear his stubble rubbing against his palm. I can't help wondering what it would sound like scratching against my body, how it would feel burning a path up the skin of my thighs... I pinch myself covertly on the arm to will away the unbidden thought. It's just rude to imagine someone fucking you with their mouth while they're trying to have a polite conversation with you.

"Oh, I don't know," he ruminates. "I guess I'm pretty open to wherever I find the best opportunity."

"Is that why you're flying to New York?" I blurt, immediately wincing at the intrusiveness of my question. It's not really any of my business why he's traveling. Dammit, why am I so awkward?

He touches my arm lightly and chuckles when he sees how embarrassed I am. "It's okay, Katniss," he reassures me. "You can ask anything you want about me, okay?"

I nod sheepishly, trying not to tremble from his touch, and quietly tell him, "Same here." As I say it, I'm stricken by the fact that it's true. Peeta can know anything he wants about me. He has this way of making me feel simultaneously at ease and agonizingly alive. He can know anything, _have_ anything, and all he needs to do is ask.

He leans toward me conspiratorially and nudges me with his elbow. "I'll have to remember that," he whispers in jest. "Maybe I'll ask you about the really personal stuff." When my face blanches he laughs and says, "Like what your favorite color is." He leans back in his chair and shakes his head, grinning. He obviously enjoys teasing, but there's nothing malicious behind it. I decide that, yes, maybe I do love this adorable dork and that I'm impossibly screwed the minute I walk off this plane and lose him again forever.

Peeta continues, "No, I'm nowhere near being able to open the gallery yet. I'm visiting my brother Rye and his wife. They just had a baby girl. Mabel Rae." His voice drips with affection for a baby he hasn’t even met yet, and my ovaries threaten to launch into Earth’s orbit at the mere thought of him cradling his infant niece.

"Oh, that's great!" I exclaim, genuinely happy for Peeta and his family. "Congratulations! Are you a first-time uncle?"

He nods proudly. "Yup. I can't wait to meet her, and then, while I'm in town, I'm going to this exhibition opening in Williamsburg. There's this shindig they're throwing, and I scored an invite because they're showing a couple of my paintings." When he sees my eyes bug, he adds dismissively, waving a hand in front of him for emphasis, "No no, it's nothing like that.... It's no big deal."

I refuse to accept his self-deprecation as fact. It's my steel gray eyes that meet his and hold on unflinchingly. In my desire to express to him how significant his achievement really is, I throw my shyness out the window–some of it, anyway. "Peeta," I say, relishing his name again, "it sounds like a big deal to me. I've never known anyone to have their art displayed in a gallery, much less in New York City."

“It’s just this little bohemian place. Really. There will probably only be twenty of us there… all the artists, basically,” he demurs, laughing. “Watch. I’ll show up, and it will be in someone’s basement. Could even be at my brother’s.”

The tone of his laughter is infectious, and I can’t help but join in with him. “Well, maybe I’ll have to check it out while I’m in town,” I say in an attempt to sound casual, but I feel like my words drip with the desperation to see his paintings. Hell, who am I kidding? To see _him_.

I hear the bronze-haired man behind me chortle, and I shoot a furtive glance at him between the seats. He’s pretending to read the in-flight magazine, and when he catches me glowering at him, he waggles an eyebrow at me and mouths, “Check it out.” Eavesdropping asshole.

Peeta’s voice sounds strained and weak, as if the effort of crafting a polite reply is too much effort for him. “Yeah. That would be great. Maybe you should.” He pauses, as if to say something else, but thinks better of it. His mouth snaps shut, and he assesses me silently. I’m thankful for his silence. I can’t handle tepid niceties.

His eyes have this disconcerting habit of flitting between my eyes and my mouth. I can't help it, but my eyes fall to his lips, too, and I find myself wondering what they would feel like pressed against mine. His lower lip is slightly fuller than his upper, and I imagine drawing it into my mouth and sucking on it to make him moan. Would his kiss be soft and intimate? Would he be gentle and curious? Or would he kiss me firmly, passionately, his tongue blazing a trail through my mouth?

Maybe he reads something lascivious in my thoughts, because when he catches me looking at his mouth, he turns away quickly, pressing both shoulders squarely against his seat. A faint pink color has spread onto his face and the tips of his earlobes. I hope it’s from the heat of the cabin and not out of mortification for the sad girl from high school who’s sporting a big, fat crush on him.

I fan myself, too, because suddenly I’m feeling hot, and I reach up to check whether the air vent is working. My fingers can feel the cool, recycled air rushing from it.

He makes no effort to continue our conversation, and I'm starting to feel like some heavy breathing in a barf bag would do me a world of good. He totally caught me checking him out, and I'm sure that even if he doesn't have a wife or girlfriend (and surely he _must_ ), then I know there's no way he could find me even remotely attractive. He's so far outside my league he might as well be another species altogether–a magical species, a fucking unicorn or something. The thought occurs to me, and it makes me groan inwardly, that if he has caught me checking him out then maybe he’ll realize I have _always_ been irresistibly attracted to him. And maybe he'll know that's why I crashed and burned colossally the one time I had any sort of chance with him.

I close my eyes to shut out as much of the humiliation as I can, to try to find some happy place that doesn't involve being pinned beneath Peeta's thrusting hips, and before I know it I've fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I don't know how long I sleep, but my neck pillow is so deliciously soft and warm against my face that I nuzzle further into it, feeling blissfully happy, protected and safe. I wake up just enough to swipe carelessly at a string of drool pooling at the corner of my mouth, and then I drop my hand onto the firm armrest and doze back off.

I’m just being lulled back to sleep when the plane hits a pocket of severe turbulence, and the jarring force causes me to clutch the armrest in sleep-induced terror. My eyes snap open, and it's then that I realize _how_ I've been sleeping.

I don't have a neck pillow anymore. No, it died its swift death on the floor of LAX. I cringe and gasp and want to vomit.

I've been sleeping on Peeta Mellark's shoulder.

And I haven't been clutching an armrest at all. I look down, the horror of the situation dawning fully upon me. I am clutching his arm in a death grip as if my life depended on it.

My eyes climb slowly from where my hand still rests on his arm ( _I can't move it...why can't I move it?_ ) up to his shoulder, which has a small pool of drool ( _my goddamn drool, in the shape of the state of Florida_ ) on it, and then I force myself to look into his face. I have a thousand apologies waiting to spill from my lips. I don't know what to expect when I meet his gaze. Will he be annoyed, disgusted, or just sorry for me? I brace myself for a tsunami of disappointment and shame.

I am in no way prepared for what I see: fear.

Peeta Mellark actually looks afraid… _of me_?


	2. Takeoff

The woman walking toward me reminds me of someone I used to know in high school. Or, rather, someone I wish I’d known.

She’s rumpled–the dark, sleek strands of her hair spring loose from her side braid and frame her oval face, and her baggy, well-worn sweatshirt hangs off her shoulder from the heavy pull of her messenger bag, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone and a dusky rose bra strap. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s breathing heavily. Her flinty gray eyes spark a fire directly in my groin.

Suddenly I can’t breathe.

She isn’t pretty. She isn’t beautiful. She is as radiant as the sun.

And she’s Katniss _Fucking_ Everdeen.

What piece of luck brought her onto my plane? This can’t be real. She can’t be real. I decide not to trust my eyes.

I force myself to rip my gaze off of her, to play it cool. I take my knuckles and give a quick dig into the corner of my eyes to clear my vision. It has to be the pint of Stella I’d had at the airport bar playing tricks on me. I admonish myself for drinking on an empty stomach. It has to be the chemicals toying with my brain, because why would Katniss Everdeen be on my plane, walking directly toward me?

My heart lurches into my throat when she stops at the empty seat next to me, and in my peripheral vision I take in the slender lines of her legs and the crest of her thighs as they disappear beneath her absurdly tiny shorts. Her skin is olive and smooth, and I can’t help but notice the fine, downy hair peppering her thighs. It almost looks blond, and she looks so soft, so sweet, I want to sweep her into my arms and run my hands all over her. In the years following graduation, I’d come to accept with more and more certainty that I’d never see her again. Now she’s standing next to me, lifting her arms above her head to jam her suitcase into the overhead bin. Her shirt lifts, exposing a sliver of her slender, toned stomach. I want to moan. This is too much, much more than I can bear.

She was intimidatingly beautiful in high school, but the limited powers of imagination that my sixteen-year-old self had could never have envisioned the woman she’d become. I don’t know what I’m going to do, trapped between the wall of the plane and her slender body for the next six hours, but I’m going to have to find some way to nut up and talk to her, to try to forget that Katniss is the standard against which I have compared every other woman I have ever met.

When her arms falter and she drops her bag, I leap up, seizing my opportunity. It’s now or never.

I have exactly six hours to get Katniss Everdeen’s phone number, and I’m not going to let her go this time.

**********

We’ve been in the air for maybe half an hour when her head falls onto my shoulder. I can’t help it– I hate myself for it–but I lean my head lightly against hers, reveling in the feel of its weight on me. The locks of her hair are smooth and silky against my face, and I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell of her shampoo. It’s something subtle and earthy and clean, like green tea, and I’m not sure what I had expected, but it’s effervescent and divine, and so I breath it in gratefully while I can.

I was glad when she fell asleep; I’d been crashing and burning. I mean, she must have thought I was a massive stalker creep. What the fuck was I thinking, mentioning that I’d asked people whether they’d heard from her? _Who does that anyway?_ And then the opportunity was there, right fucking there, for me to ask her to go with me to the exhibition opening, and I couldn't do it. I choked. I literally, actually choked, and I couldn’t squeeze the words out of my parched throat. I felt like there was a ballgag jammed into my mouth, and I couldn't move my tongue around it to enunciate the words.

Then, much worse, she caught me checking her out. I was admiring her lips, those excruciatingly exquisite, lush, pink lips. I want to cradle her face in my hands and taste her, to pepper her with a hundred reverent kisses, to kiss her thoroughly and firmly, to make her lips swell from the pressure of mine on hers, and then to explore every inch of her beautiful mouth. I was just thinking about how I’d like to make her moan my name, to hear her husky voice, thick with desire, panting for me, when her eyes darted down to my mouth, too.

It must have embarrassed her because she looked away, fidgeting with everything she could touch in the seat back rather than look at me. I want to apologize for making her uncomfortable, but there’s no way I can do that without making everything worse. Because I can’t lie to her. I’d have to tell her that I have wanted to kiss her since the first day I saw her, in the freshman talent show, when she sang the Valley Song. From that day I was hopelessly, impossibly in love with Katniss Everdeen, and after our one disastrous interaction, I couldn’t pluck up the nerve to talk to her again. That’s when I lost her, when I couldn’t tell her how I felt about her, and I just let her walk away.

As she sleeps, snoring quietly, I decide to while away the time by reading the in-flight magazine. I’m reading some advertisement about Tucson that’s masquerading as an article when the red-haired flight attendant makes her first beverage service round, smiling benevolently at the domestic picture Katniss and I paint. She gestures to Katniss. “Poor thing must’ve been exhausted. You’re very sweet to let a stranger sleep on your shoulder like that.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lie, because in actuality it’s everything, and I’m having a hard time remembering the last time I felt so contented and at ease. “Besides, she’s not a stranger,” I add, smirking. “We go way back.”

“Oh.” The flight attendant knits her brow in confusion, trying to decipher my answer and the stupid look I no doubt have plastered across my face. “Well, would you like to order a drink for her then?”

Pressing my lips together in a thin line, I bite back a grimace. Maybe I’d oversold how well I know Katniss. I have no idea what she’d want to drink, but I feign confidence anyway. “Sure. Yeah. A water for her would be great... and an…” I glance at her sleeping head and grasp at the first thing that comes to mind, “orange juice? And a tea for me.”

I’m relieved when the flight attendant moves along to the crusty drunk guy and Abercrombie and Fitch in the row behind us so that I can go back, undisturbed, to my brittle fantasy of being the guy on whose shoulder Katniss would actually want to take a nap.

That’s when we hit the pocket of turbulence.

I fucking hate turbulence. On any flight I’ve ever taken, at the very first hint of it, I’m already scanning the plane for Hurley or Sawyer or Sayid–anyone who would give me the indication that our plane is about to be rent in two and then unceremoniously dumped into a remote pocket of ocean. Nevermind the fact that I’m not currently flying over water, I’m fully expecting a watery grave. I can’t swim, and these are the things that occur to someone who knows they’re dead the minute their ass touches the water.

The pilot’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. He sounds calm and professional, but for all I know his voice is a mask concealing profound terror. “Ladies and gentleman, this is your pilot Beetee Latier. We’ve been advised that the air is a bit choppy approaching the Rockies, so we’re going to ask folks to take a seat and fasten your seatbelts until we can reach a smoother altitude. Flight attendants, please take your seats.”

Well, it’s never a good sign when they suspend the drink service.

The plane begins to scuttle about, periodically dropping like it’s a roller coaster safely affixed to a track and not really a free-falling missile. The liquid in the cups on the tray table begins to splash around. For some reason the tumultuous liquid makes my panic worse, so I down Katniss’ orange juice in one gulp and then move onto her water. I’ve just put the glass down when she snaps awake, pulling away from me in one sharp move, looking aghast. Her eyes flit down to my shoulder, which, I notice, has an adorable splotch of her drool on it, and then she looks back at me, clearly ready to say something.

I don’t know what she’s going to say, and it doesn’t matter right now because I’m absolutely positive we’re going to die, and if we’re going to die, I want it to be holding Katniss Everdeen’s hand. The awareness of this, the knowledge that this would be enough, takes me by surprise.

The prospect of our imminent demise makes me bold, and I reach out and clasp her hand where it lays on the armrest, twining my fingers through hers, pressing my palm firmly against the smooth skin on the back of her hand and relishing the feel of her bones. She’s warm from sleep, and her hand is so delicate and slender that mine completely engulfs it. It makes me feel as though I’m protecting her, and, in protecting her, I feel safe, too.

I stare down at our interwoven hands and can feel a current radiating up my arm from the contact of her skin on mine. It’s agonizing, but the sensation immediately distracts me from the turbulence. Because shit. _Am I holding Katniss Everdeen’s hand?_

We sit there in a charged silence, completely unable to hazard a glance in each other’s direction. If she thought I was a creep before, I dread to think what her opinion of me is now. I worry my lip instead as I figure out what I plan to say next. It isn’t until I can feel her hand trembling beneath mine that I dare to look over at her. I expect to see a wide-eyed “save-me-from-this-serial-killer” stare.

Instead she’s laughing. It’s a full-bodied, silent laugh, and her right hand covers her massive, exquisitely breath-taking smile. It fills every inch of my being with a feeling I can’t name, a warmth that expands in my chest and threatens to burst it.

“Peeta,” she laughs breathlessly, “are you afraid of the turbulence?”

I smile sheepishly. “You got me. I’m just the worst flyer. I know it’s ridiculous. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that turbulence doesn’t cause crashes. The minute it hits, I’m kicking myself for not packing a volleyball to keep me company on the island.” I pull my hand away, and to give it something to do, I scratch at the hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed your hand like that, but I think you may have saved me the embarrassment of screaming like a stabbed hyena.”

Her mercury eyes twinkle at me. “That’s okay,” she says reassuringly. “I didn’t mind. Your wife, on the other hand… think she would?”

I shake my head once and hold my left hand up, displaying a lack of wedding band. “No wife,” I tell her.

Katniss smirks and arches an eyebrow. “No ring doesn’t mean no wife.”

“For me it does,” I say.

“That’s fair,” she quips, sounding satisfied by my answer. She runs her index finger along the length of her lower lip unconsciously, and it makes me wonder how her lips would feel under my fingers. Or, god help me, wrapped around my cock. “How about your charming but possessive live-in girlfriend?” she asks.

I shake my head again. “Don’t have one of those either.” I look down at the tray table and uselessly fiddle with the rim of one of the empty plastic cups. “Not anymore,” I add in a quiet voice.

“Huh,” she says, but if she wants details, she doesn't press for them. She leans forward, rummaging through her messenger bag, and retrieves a bottle of water before taking a long pull from it.

“What about you?” I ask. “Would your husband or boyfriend mind?” I elbow her. “You married to Gale Hawthorne by now?”

She nearly chokes and coughs violently, covering her mouth with her forearm, leaning forward to catch her breath. I give her a firm pat on her back, and she starts to laugh incredulously.

“Gale Hawthorne?” she asks in a raspy voice. “Christ no. Gale and I never–were never like that. He’s like my brother. I mean, I _love_ him. We still keep in close touch, but he’s married now. Lives in Phoenix with his wife Cressida. They’ve got three sons, and get this–” She pauses for dramatic effect.

I quirk my eyebrows up in interest to express that she has my full attention (but this is nothing new).

She smiles, encouraged. “He’s a stay at home dad. Gale Hawthorne is a full-blown, unapologetic Mr. Mom. Of all people. And he’s so happy.” She laughs and shakes her head, unable to believe it. I never really knew the guy, just knew him by sight and knew that he had been attached to Katniss’ hip all through high school. This information, that Gale had never been more than a platonic friend to her, takes me by surprise. I’d always assumed that she and Gale were together. I regret now never having asked around about it. Knowing that could have made a difference. Probably not, being a massive chickenshit and all, but maybe it could have.

“So no Gale Hawthorne then,” I say. “Doesn’t mean you don’t have someone else,” I add, flirtatiously spinning her previous words to use them against her.

She flushes and looks down. Her voice is low and steady and claws its way directly into my gut, lodging there like a lead bullet. “No. There’s no one. There hasn’t been,” she concedes, “for a while now.”

It’s all the permission I need. I’m going for it.

“That’s hard to believe,” I say sincerely, scanning her face. I don’t care if it reveals a little too much; she deserves to know.

She looks down bashfully, peeling the label of her water bottle off in small, constrained movements as if it were as monumental an effort as building the Great Pyramids. “Believe it,” she laments. “I haven’t been on a date in like two years.”

It’s my turn to choke. She’s got to be fucking kidding me. I splutter and laugh, “What? You’re shitting me, right?” How does Katniss Everdeen not get dates? She must be turning guys away left and right, and the thought makes me queasy. Because what hope do I have then?

Her face reddens in either embarrassment or anger, and she leans away from me on her right elbow. “Look,” she snaps peevishly. “Meeting people isn’t easy for all of us. We’re not all chatty and personable and... well. Yeah. Let’s just say it doesn’t come easily to everyone. There isn’t exactly a line up of guys knocking down my door.” She crosses her arms defensively against her chest and looks away from me while gnawing on her lip.

She has no idea then. The effect she can have. And it’s not just on me. Half the guys I knew in high school were too intimidated to talk to her. She’s always seemed so confident and indifferent to what people thought of her. She’s mysterious and intoxicating and smart and beautiful. So if she’s not going out on dates, it’s her choice, not for lack of options. There’s no way.

I can see that she’s mistaken my incredulity for mockery, and that won’t do at all. I take my index finger and poke her arm, feeling like a twelve year old all over again, flirting the only way he knows how. “Hey,” I admonish her softly. “I wasn’t making fun of you. I’m just having a hard time believing you is all.” My voice cracks a little as I say this, and I clear my throat to mask my nerves. I shift gears, hoping to get her to talk again. “So who was this dumbass?” I ask her.

She whips her head back toward me, brows knitted in consternation, no doubt thinking I’d just insulted her again by calling the last guy to date her a dumbass for it. I clarify, “I mean the dumbass who didn’t take you out on another date.”

Her brows smooths out, and I’m relieved to see the worry lines disappear. She groans and rolls her eyes. “Ugh. My ex. His name was Seneca Crane, and he was the worst. I’m telling you. I think the most interesting thing about him was his hipster beard, which he preferred stroking to anything on me.” She laughs loudly, a clear, sparkling laugh that reminds me of a summer afternoon at the beach–calm and sunny and lively. It warms my bones, and I laugh along with her.

“So a total tool then,” I assert.

“Yeah. You can say that,” she agrees emphatically. “It’s an occupational hazard of dating musicians in Seattle.”

The pleased look on her face, the excited glow on her cheeks, makes me chuckle. “Wait, are you calling yourself a tool?”

She pretends to consider this and answers, laughing, “I guess I am. But a useful one. Like maybe a Swiss Army knife or something. I’m pocket-sized, bendable, competent but mediocre at many things.” She blushes and holds her face in her hands, groaning through her fingers. “Oh god. That just sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

She seems relaxed and inclined to keep chatting, for which I’m thankful. I still feel like an exposed bundle of raw nerves, and I’m glad that my tray table is down so that she can’t see my knee nervously bopping or that the mere sound of her laugh is making me hard.

I steer the conversation effortlessly from topic to topic, and I’m amazed by how easy it is to talk to her and by how much we have in common. She makes it out to the coast to watch the sunset as often as she can. She likes to go hiking and, although she doesn’t bake, she enjoys spending evenings cooking, drinking beer and tinkering with recipes. It’s when she tells me that her favorite movie is _Cool Hand Luke_ and starts singing in that intoxicating voice of hers, “I don’t care if it rains or freezes ‘long as I have my plastic Jesus,” that I know this is the girl I want to marry. I know, without a doubt, that there never was and never will be a woman more perfect for me than Katniss Everdeen.

I glance across the aisle and see a couple in the first row, probably around our age, holding onto each other giddily. The girl is flipping through a tourist guide book for New York City and pointing enthusiastically to something in the book. Her dark corkscrew curls bob up and down as she gestures to the page and then leans toward her partner, her husband, to kiss him. Her husband wraps both hands around her head, cradling her face against his to relish their kiss. Seeing them so in love together makes my heart ache for the thing I don’t have.

The flight attendant with cascading red hair comes over the intercom. She stands there, in front of the young married couple, flashing a moony grin at them. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m very excited to announce that we have a pair of newlyweds flying with us today on their way to their honeymoon in New York! Let’s extend our congratulations to them!” Her voice is unrelentingly perky and enthusiastic, and she’s clearly a woman predisposed to love anything to do with “capital ‘L’ Love.” Not that I can blame her, but she could ease up a bit for the rest of us.

The passengers on the plane applaud half-heartedly in hopes that the sooner they comply, the sooner the flight attendant will leave them alone and allow them to go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, she continues. “To thank them for flying with us at Pan Em Air today, we’d like to offer them a complimentary bottle of champagne. If the happy couple would please press the call button, I’d be happy to deliver it to them.” She winks at the couple in front of her and is already extending the hand that holds the champagne bottle to them when I reach up and press my call button.

Katniss whips her head around to look at me, her mouth agape, and I suppress the urge to break out into maniacal laughter. I give her a small wink and raise my hand, waving to the flight attendant. She stands rooted to her spot, quizzical and uncomprehending, and alternates between looking at us and the champagne bottle in her hand. With an apologetic shrug, she walks away from the couple and approaches us.

“Congratulations, I had no idea,” she exclaims with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, handing the bottle of champagne to me.

Katniss winds her arm through mine, and my heart thrums in my chest at the assertiveness of her touch, at the thought that if she were really mine, this is what she would do. She leans her head against my shoulder and thanks the flight attendant sweetly for the generosity of the company. As soon as we are alone again, she lifts her head and retracts her arm. The air feels cold on my arm wherever her body had been touching mine. She hisses at me, “Why did you do that?! You basically just stole this champagne!”

I can’t help but laugh. “It’s okay, Katniss. Something tells me they’re going to be just fine.”

We shoot a furtive glance at the couple across the aisle, both of whom are crucifying us with disapproving eyes the color of rich mahogany. I hold up the bottle to them and innocently salute them with “cheers!” They shake their heads and go back to their own business of being madly in love, their disappointment already forgotten.

“See?” I prompt gently. “To the victors go the spoils.” I hold the bottle up, waggling it. “Shall we?”

She rolls her eyes, relenting. “Sure? Why not. Since we’re newlyweds and all. Might as well celebrate, right?”

“Exactly my thoughts,” I concur. I pop the cork, both of us flinching at the sudden force of the sound. Katniss reaches over and grasps one of the empty plastic cups on my tray. I fill the cup to the brim, her eyes widening at the healthy serving size, and then I fill mine to match hers.

“To a long and happy life together,” I toast, winking at her, the flimsy rims of our plastic cups smushing together from the pressure.

She blushes a lovely color, and I can’t help thinking that it matches the color of cherry blossom buds. “To a long and happy life,” she murmurs back, taking a long draw of the bubbly amber liquid.

I lean in toward her and whisper, “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

She releases a breathy, weightless laugh, and her eyes dart down to my lips before meeting mine. “Okay, sure,” she says, rolling her eyes again, sure that I’m teasing her. She takes a quick look around at the other passengers in first class as if to see whether or not we’re being watched. We’re not. We might as well be the only two people on this plane.

“No really. I’ll allow it,” I say, and I’m only half-teasing. I want to kiss her so fucking badly, to taste the champagne mingling on her breath.

“Oh, you’ll _allow_ it?” she asks archly, and I’m mesmerized by dimples I’d never noticed before that appear on the right side of her mouth when she smiles.

Suddenly I’m not joking at all. I want her mouth on mine. I want to run the pad of my thumb across those dimples, to wrap my hand behind her ear and press her closely to me. I almost can’t bear not to. It physically hurts not to be able to kiss Katniss Everdeen. It’s not that I’ll allow her to kiss me. I want to demand it, to tell her that I need it. But of course I can’t.

She takes another long swig of her champagne and polishes off the glass. She must note the surprise on my face because she protests, “Hey! It’s not like I’m going to relish the taste out of a plastic cup, right?”

I nod, unable to speak, and she leans in toward me, placing the empty glass on my tray table. She takes her right hand and slowly, hesitantly, places it on my cheek, running her fingers along my stubble. The sensation makes me want to groan, but I bite my lip instead to suppress the sound. Her dark gray eyes flit to my mouth, and she uses to her thumb to loosen my lip from my teeth. Without thinking, I kiss it softly and hold her gaze. Her irises are dark and full, and before I know it, she’s leaning in and pressing her soft mouth to mine.

The kiss is quick, too quick, but heated. She tastes like mint gum and the cool, fizzy fruit of the champagne. She pulls away just slightly but keeps her face still pressed to mine. I can feel her eyelashes fluttering against my cheek and the searing heat of her hand on my face.

“Fuck,” I whisper against her lips, and she sighs when my breath mingles with hers.

I can’t help it. She’s irresistible. I need to know more about her kisses, to feel her tongue rubbing against mine. I take my hands and pull her closer to me, using my tongue to gently trace the seam of her lips. She tilts her head and parts her mouth for me, allowing me access, and I draw her lower lip into my mouth and nibble it teasingly. Her tongue meets mine, and I caress it passionately while exploring her mouth.

Of all the girls I’ve kissed, of the women I’ve been with, I never knew that a kiss could feel like this. It fills me with a deep hunger I never knew I had, and as filling and faultless as it is, it doesn’t come close to satisfying my desire for her.

She pulls away, and we stare at each other for a moment, breathless and panting from the intensity of the kiss. Then we both start to laugh together, a giddy and dizzy-sounding noise that rings throughout the cabin. I don’t know about her. I don’t know what it means for us.

But, as for me, I know I’m a total fucking goner.


	3. Cruising Altitude

Maybe it’s the half bottle of champagne I’ve devastated in a handful of swills, but I’m feeling bold and uninhibited. When Peeta tells me that I can kiss him anytime I feel like it, I don’t care whether or not he’s teasing.

_I feel like it. So I do it._

I wish everything could be as simple, that it could always be as easy as just reaching out and taking whatever I want, whenever I want it.

I’d been staring at his stubble since I boarded the plane, so I figure that’s as good a place as any to start. I extend my hand gingerly, as if he were a wounded animal. As it makes contact with his skin, my eyes scour his demeanor, looking for any trace of a flinch. He freezes, a pink flush instantly blazing a path up the fair skin of his neck, but he doesn’t recoil. My fingers delicately trace a path along the line of his jaw, savoring the abrasive feel of his scruff against my soft skin. Yes, I think. I definitely wouldn’t mind feeling that scraping against the inside of my thighs. Just the thought causes a tingling warmth to pool between my legs and radiate into my stomach.

His pale blue eyes darken, the irises rapidly vanishing as his pupils engulf them, and his mouth tightens as he draws in his lower lip, clamping down on it with his teeth. I can see the skin whiten from the pressure, and, without thinking, my hand moves to his lip to release it. I swallow a gasp as Peeta kisses my thumb. The gesture is so tender and intimate, as if he were my lover, that it emboldens me. I close the distance between us and kiss him fervently, allowing myself exactly three seconds to enjoy the feel of his lips against mine. They are indescribably soft, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t hesitate to kiss me back.

Slowly tearing my lips away, I press my forehead against his and bask in the warmth of his breath on my face. I keep my eyes closed and listen for several heartbeats to his steady exhalations. He mutters, “fuck,” and the way that the word claws its way from his throat, hoarse and heated, makes me sigh lustily. Before I know it, his hands are tangled in my hair, and his mouth is on mine again, claiming me.

I don’t know how long we kiss. It could be minutes, it could be hours. I only know that I wish I could freeze this moment and live in it forever.

When we finally break apart, I notice he’s short of breath, too. I must have been clawing at his hair, because his waves are disheveled and sticking up in two spots, one one each side of his head. Reaching out, I sheepishly smooth the strands back into place, but I don’t allow my hand to linger or to brush his scalp, no matter how badly I want to. When I withdraw my hand I bring it to my mouth, and I swear I can still feel every spot where his lips touched mine, branding me.

_Shit, that was intense._

I don’t know what to make of it, this unexpected ferocity between us, so I start to laugh feverishly, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he joins in. Peeta’s laugh is so robust that, as he chuckles, his broad shoulders shake.

His kiss tastes like champagne and something else… something sugary and sweet and mingled with cinnamon. _That’s it_ , I think, and I can’t help but blurt it out.

“You taste exactly like snickerdoodles.”

He quirks up an eyebrow appreciatively. “It’s funny you should say that,” he replies, sounding amused, and he reaches down into a backpack at his feet and fetches a small paper parcel out of it. He takes my hand and drops the baggie into my palm, curling my fingers around it. “Here,” he says, flashing a crooked smile. “Have one. I made them last night.”

I open the bag curiously and glance in, a lopsided smile curling up my face. My mouth waters at the sight of the honey-colored cookies, and I pluck one out of the parcel and hold it up gratefully, letting the beam of the overhead reading light illuminate it. Can a cookie look glorious? I suddenly wish I could speak Zulu so that I could exalt the cookie like Rafiki in _The Lion King_. “Thank you,” I tell him, feeling unaccountably touched. I’m not used to sexy men feeding me sweets. Or any man, for that matter, feeding me anything other than bullshit.

The snickerdoodle is flaky and buttery, and as I bite into it, I can’t help but groan in pleasure, my eyes rolling back into my head. I decide right then that this boy is mine and that, if someone were to make the mistake of handing me a weapon, I’d lodge it in the heart of the first person foolish enough to try to get between us.

***********************

“Chicken.” The voice startles me, and I jump in my seat, whipping around to check out its source. The flight attendant stands in the aisle, hovering over me, an expectant look on her face. If Peeta’s stunt with the champagne soured her opinion of us, she doesn’t let on. Maybe she really thinks that Peeta and I are in love, which is preposterous. _Really_. I mean, we can’t be. Instinctively, I reach out and grab his hand, twining my fingers together with his and resting it on my lap. _Might as well put on a convincing show_ , I tell myself. He squeezes my hand in response, and the sensation of his skin against mine and the proximity of his hand to my crotch is doing things to me that, frankly speaking, no man has ever done. Just sitting next to him makes me ache deep within my core.

Huh?” I stammer inarticulately up at her. I’m not used to being caught off-guard, but I’d been so absorbed in Peeta’s company that I hadn’t even noticed she’d begun dinner service.

“I said,” she repeats patiently, “Your entree options are beef and chicken.”

The prospect of consuming mystery meat for nutritional purposes makes me grimace. The options could be squirrel or wild dog for as much as I want either. “Can you be any more specific?” I cringe, already knowing and dreading the answer.

She glances at the two trays in her hand, squinting at the content labels with font so small it is deliberately illegible. “No, I’m so sorry,” she says, and I can tell she’s being sincere. She doesn’t want to have to serve us that crap any more than we want to have to ingest it.

“Do you have any extra vegetarian portions?” I hate to be a pain, but I rationalize that I’m less likely to die of a virulent foodborne illness from eating boiled vegetables than from Meat X.

Peeta leans in and whispers in my ear, “I should probably know this about my _wife_ , but are you a vegetarian?” The heat of his body against my arm sends a tremor coursing down my spine.

I turn to meet his eyes, just inches from my own, and I give a small shake of the head in response. At this distance, I can count every faint freckle dusted across his face.

Satisfied by my answer, he squeezes my hand and, glancing up at the flight attendant, he tells her, “Actually, we’re gonna take a pass on the food. Thanks, though. Could we just get a couple of drinks?”

I’m not sure what Peeta’s plan to avoid starvation might be, but since I’m not exactly broken-hearted to see the “chicken” and “beef” go, I don’t question the wisdom of his decision. We take our drinks, a couple waters and two whiskeys on the rocks. As the flight attendant moves along, he pulls his hand from mine, splaying his thick fingers across my bare thigh and giving it a brief squeeze before removing it. The instant his hand leaves my thigh I want to grab it and put it back on me, although preferably much higher.

He leans forward and draws another parcel from the bag by his feet. This packet is larger and holds something wrapped in white paper.

“Since you’re a carnivore too, I thought we could share this instead,” he offers, carefully putting the packet on my tray table.

I look at him, touched yet again by the sweetness of the offer, and when he sees the expression on my face, he downplays the gesture. “It’s not anything special. I just don’t like eating airplane food if I can help it, so I packed a sandwich. There’s plenty for the both of us, though.“

Smoothing the paper down, I unroll the sandwich and see that it’s cut into two perfect halves. It looks delicious, and my stomach rumbles eagerly at the sight.

“Yeah, so what you’re looking at is a turkey and cream cheese sandwich on some raisin and nut bread,” he explains, scratching at the back of his neck in what I’ve come to realize is a particularly precious nervous tic. “It’s not my finest work. I sort of botched the bread making it.”

My jaw falls open. “Wait, you _made_ the bread?”

He laughs and holds his hands up. “Guilty as charged. Burnt it, too. Once you get a taste of it, you’ll probably realize the wisdom of passing the bakery along to Graham and not to me.”

I take my half of the sandwich and sink my teeth into it. Delicious doesn’t begin to cover it. The bread is hearty and wholesome, and the taste of the turkey and fresh basil on my tongue makes my mouth water. My head falls back against the headrest, eyes shut in bliss as I chew.

“Mmm, damn, Peeta,” I moan with abandon. “This is fantastic. Thank you.”

I roll my head to look over at him and see he’s leaning against the window, arms folded across his chest, smirking at me. “You’re really enjoying that sandwich, huh, Everdeen?” he teases, his eyes twinkling provocatively.

“Damn straight, Mellark,” I shoot back. I’m glad the captain has dimmed the cabin lights because I’m having a hard time fighting back the color from seeping into my face from the way Peeta is staring at me. There’s something flickering in the crystal depths of his eyes that makes me squirm in my chair.

I take a long draw of my whiskey, and I notice Peeta does the same. The liquid scalds its way down my esophagus and fortifies my nerves. “So,” I say abruptly to break the silence between us, “Tell me about this ex-girlfriend of yours.”

He tears his eyes from mine and grabs his half of the sandwich, taking a massive bite out of it. He stares ahead, his cheeks ballooning outward like a chipmunk hoarding its dinner. I’d be charmed by this if it didn’t smack of a stalling tactic, like he’s buying time to think about what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. I’ve been crawling out of my skin to know the entire story ever since he’d mentioned her to me, and now I can feel the panic creeping into me, the worry that Peeta is still hung up on this phantasmic ex of his. _I’ll know_ , I think, _if he says he’s not ready to talk about her_.

His answer surprises me. “Sure,” he says offhandedly in between bites. “What do you want to know?”

I’m taken aback. He’s put the ball in my court, and I didn’t expect that. It turns out I don’t really want to know anything about her except that she’s a done deal, but I can’t exactly ask him that directly, so I’ll have to fish. “Um, you know. Her name. How long you dated.” The questions get thornier from there, so I add evasively, “All… of… _that_.” I dab my lips with a napkin, resisting the urge to make eye contact. There’s no way I can mirror his nonchalance if I look directly at him.

I realize I’ve completely lost my appetite.

He places his sandwich down and wipes his hands with the square airplane napkin. Smudges of cream cheese smear across the printed map of the U.S., blotting out several of the middle states– Nebraska, Iowa, and Kansas, I think. Although who could be sure.

“Well,” he says, his voice sounding remarkably even and calm. “Her name was– _is_ –Clove. We dated for four years. Met in college. Broke up eight months ago.” He gives a dry, mirthless laugh. “Yeah. I think that about covers it.”

Now my eyes meet his, searching for more information. His face is placid, unmoved, and my brows furrow as I consider what I want to ask him next.

"I think there’s probably a little more to the story than that,” I coax him, my cool voice concealing that there is a bomb threatening to detonate in my stomach.

He sighs and scrubs at his jaw with his hand. “Yeah, well, like I said… what do you want to know, Katniss?”

My voice is small, the question timid. “Do you miss her?”

“I did at first,” he answers, that unnerving gaze locking on me again. “Then it was more like missing _someone_ ,” he adds. “Not specifically _her_ , if that makes any sense.”

I nod in understanding. The loneliness, that aching feeling of being completely, desperately alone in a world where everyone else seems to have someone, no matter how shitty that someone might be… I get it.

“So she was the one who ended it?” I ask.

Unconsciously, he sighs once again, wrapping up the remainder of his sandwich. Clearly he’s lost his appetite, too, I note, feeling guilty for having brought it up in the first place.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, sounding defeated and suddenly very old. There’s a guardedness that has crept into his tone, a reticence that indicates he doesn’t exactly want to reveal everything to me, after all.

It’s unfathomable to me, someone choosing to walk away from Peeta Mellark. As I consider this Clove person’s possible motivation, I don’t know if I want to kiss her, kill her, or be her. She’s done me a favor, definitely, by removing herself from the situation, but looking at the wounded man in front of me I feel strangely protective of him. I’m not thankful to her. I wouldn’t want to be her for the world. No. I think I’d like to cut her down in her sleep for hurting him.

“Why?” I prompt. Maybe it’s cruel to press, but I have to know. I have to try to understand.

Peeta finishes his whiskey in one long gulp and holds the cup up, swishing the ice around. He stares intently at the cubes in the glass, some of them frozen together in blocks, others melted down, alone, no larger than pearls.

“We wanted different things, ultimately,” he offers, sounding evasive.

I sigh in frustration by the maddening vagueness of his reply, not understanding whether he is trying to protect himself or the memory of her. “Which was…” I grumble, an edge to my voice. I just wish he’d spit it out already. What is this dark secret he’s skirting around anyway?

He places his glass on my tray table and folds his back up into the seat in front of him. When he does this, I notice that his left leg is bouncing in an agitated, relentless rhythm. He takes his hands and runs them down the length of his pant legs as if to wipe away some invisible filth. Then, finally, he looks at me.

“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her,” he answers, and I can feel the bomb exploding, pulverizing my guts. My insides are a roaring inferno of hatred and jealousy and despair.

“Oh,” I croak, my face smoothing out into something, I’m sure, resembling a death mask.

“Or so I thought,” he adds, “at the time.”

His words are a balm, dulling the fire but not extinguishing it. “And what did _she_ want?” I ask, not trusting my voice above a whisper.

His eyes fall for a second to my mouth, then he looks away, pulling at a nonexistent thread on his pants. “Something– _someone_ –else,” he replies quietly.

The steady hum of the airplane engines and the hushed babble of the other passengers provide a solemn soundtrack to his confession; everything else is deafeningly silent.

I suck in the air violently between my front teeth, creating a sharp sound that lacerates the air between us. “She sounds like a heartless bitch,” I exhale in a single gust of breath, instantly covering my mouth, aghast by what I’ve said.

He turns his head sharply to look at me and laughs at the horror-struck expression on my face.

“I’m so sorry. I… I shouldn’t have said that,” I stammer through my fingers.

He peels my hand away from my mouth and takes it into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t be,” he tells me. “Everything happens for a reason, right?” He looks down at our interlocked hands. “I was angry at first and, I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty wrecked by it, but now I’m glad I found out about it when I did… when it comes down to it.”

“And you haven’t… you haven’t… dated anyone since you two broke up?”

My question is met with a smile that is sweet and sad and soothing. “No. Fuck. I mean, how do you even begin to get back out there?” he wonders.

“Hey, you’re asking the wrong girl,” I wryly retort.

Peeta doesn’t say anything in reply. He just looks at me, searchingly, and unconsciously rubs the back of my hand with his thumb–small, repetitive circles that draw out goosebumps along both my arms.

“So after… you… found out. What did you do?” I ask him.

“I moved out,” he answers with a shrug. “Moved into a rathole apartment with my friend Delly.” He notices my questioning expression and answers, “She’s my Gale Hawthorne, basically.”

I nod, satisfied, and squeeze his hand. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to be said about the matter. Except for one thing.

“I’m sorry she did that to you,” I murmur, feeling myself blush to the tips of my ears.

“Don’t be,” he pleads, his voice ardent and serious. “I’m not.”

Before I know it, before I can register what is happening, I feel his lips on mine. This kiss is different than before. It is needful, and I let his tongue dominate mine and explore my mouth, running along my teeth and lips with an unfettered desire. He holds my face to his with one of his broad hands, the callused skin of his thumb stroking my cheek as we kiss, and I can feel his other hand clutching my waist, the pressure of each finger digging into my flesh through the fabric of my sweatshirt. I can feel my clit throbbing uncomfortably, aching to be touched, and the heat of our kiss, the proximity of his body to mine, is making me excruciatingly wet. The slick heat of my arousal pools around my inner thighs, and I clamp my legs together in a futile effort to fight it.

He breaks away first, keeping his hands on me but releasing my lips. “I’m sorry,” he says in a faltering undertone, his breath hot on my face. "I shouldn’t have done that.”

It’s my turn to plead. “Don’t be.”

Peeta clears his throat and pulls away, hastily unbuckling his seatbelt. “Mind if I get up?” he asks in a low, gravelly tone, and I childishly grin to myself at the double entendre.

“Not at all,” I tell him, shakily rising to my feet and stepping into the aisle.

He stands and steps into the aisle, too, but instead of walking past me toward the lavatory in the front of the plane, he coils his arms around my waist. My arms instantly wrap around the back of his head, my fingers toying with the scruff of his hair at the base of his neck. I can feel the pressure of his hands on my lower back, and he pulls me tightly against him.

“I’ve been wanting to do that again since the minute we sat down,” he murmurs into my hair, and his tone is so fervent that I groan under my breath and rock my hips into his, feeling his hard length pressing against my pelvis.

He takes a single step backwards and turns around, walking toward the lavatory, hastily disappearing inside. I stand in the aisle, feeling shell-shocked and overwrought with desire. Leaning heavily on the back of my chair, I rub a finger along my lip, thinking about how he would feel buried inside of me.

A low, rumbling cackle interrupts my reverie. I glare over my shoulder at the source. The middle-aged man behind me chugs gin straight from a mini-bottle and toasts me with the empty bottle. “I’ve got some advice for you, sweetheart,” he rasps.

“Yeah? And what’s that?” I scowl at him.

“Get a room,” he cracks, making the bronze-haired passenger next to him guffaw.

_How fucking original._

As embarrassing as it is to be called out by the leering man, he makes a fair point. I desperately want to find a room, a private place somewhere where I can rake my hands over every inch of Peeta Mellark’s body. Where I can pretend, for a short time, that he is mine.

I look wistfully toward the front of the plane, staring absentmindedly at the “occupied” light above the lavatory door when the idea comes to me. That there is a place, here, where I can be alone with Peeta.

_I feel like it. So I do it._

Before I lose my courage or second-guess myself, I saunter purposefully toward the lavatory door. I can’t stand here waiting, I know. Federal regulations prohibit it and all that. But then I’ve never been much of one to give a shit about federal regulations.

It feels like hours drag by, like I’m standing bare-ass naked in front of the entire plane. In a way, I sort of am, my desire for Peeta practically embroidered on my sleeve. My breath comes in shallow, feeble gasps, and I’m just about ready to turn around and flee back to my seat when I hear the scraping of the lock in the door. As the door folds inward, Peeta moves to exit. When he sees me standing there, a smile instantly, spontaneously appears on his face. His natural joy at seeing me strengthens my resolve.

I hold my arm out, rigid, and push back on his chest. I can feel his firm muscles beneath my palm, and I want, desperately, to see them, to drag my tongue languidly over his pecs. I walk toward him, backing him into the cramped lavatory. When I’m standing inside the lavatory with him, pressed up snugly against his body, I reach behind me and slide the lock shut. It squeals on its hinges, an unsettling sound that resonates throughout every square inch of the poorly lit space.

His eyes are wide and uncomprehending. “Katniss, what are you doing?”

My hands answer him. I clutch the fabric of his t-shirt in two messy fistfuls, pulling him toward me. I can feel the muscles of his abdomen clench as my mouth latches onto his. In response to my heated kiss he groans, wrapping his arms around my waist, and pushes me forcefully against the door.

The momentum of our weight hitting the door violently rattles it, and when the bar of the sliding latch digs sharply into my back, I hiss in pain. Peeta pulls away, a panicked look filling his eyes. “Shit, did I hurt you, Katniss?” He looks so worried, so terrified at the prospect of accidentally injuring me, that my stomach flutters in blissful anxiety. _He’s so strong but gentle_ , I think, and the desire I feel for him at the thought causes my stomach to coil in knots.

“No,” I murmur, my hands skating up his torso to his shoulders, pulling him toward me again. His head falls back for a second, his eyes fluttering closed at my touch. His Adam’s apple bobs in his exposed throat, and I fight the urge to draw a straight line up his neck with my tongue, tracing his pulse.

In one swift movement he pivots us so that my back rests against the smooth wall opposite the small sink and mirror. I hazard a glance at my reflection, barely recognizing the person I find staring back at me. The girl looks half-wild. Her lips are swollen and cherry red from the pressure of Peeta’s kisses, her cheeks flushed an unfamiliar shade of pink, and her eyes flash with excitement and passion. Her dark hair cascades loosely around her face, all semblance of a braid long since obliterated. She looks powerful and fiery and alive. I decide I want to be her.

Peeta’s eyes, dark and hooded, meet mine, and his hands find their way to my hips, his fingertips digging into my hipbones. He dips his head down and nudges my head to the side with his nose, planting slow kisses along my neck. He alternates between kissing and sucking, never pulling hard enough to leave a mark, but using enough force that my legs threaten to buckle out from beneath me. Every time his wet mouth pulls on my skin or his scruff drags along my flesh electric currents jolt through my body, making me shudder. His hands move hesitantly from my hips, dipping beneath my shirt to wrap around my waist. We moan together at the sensation of his hands on my bare skin.

He drags his hands upward, beneath my shirt, to my breasts. Cupping them gently through the fabric of my lace bra, he runs his thumbs over my pebbled nipples, and the feel of his expansive hands covering my breasts causes my hips to involuntarily buck into his. I mewl when Peeta’s hips undulate in response, pressing his erection against my core. The fleeting friction against my center is unbearable. I want his fingers on me, dragging through my wet folds and circling repeatedly over me until I come, crying his name.

He trails kisses along my neck and up to my ear, blowing gently into my ear canal before tracing the sloping lines of my earlobe with the tip of his tongue.

“What do you want? Tell me what you want,“ he whispers.

Six words. Six syllables. It should be easy, but it takes every ounce of strength I have. To put yourself out there, so naked and exposed, is very costly. It costs everything you are. I press into him again, my hands dropping to his ass, and I hold my hips flush to his. I can feel how hard he is for me. It reminds me that he wants me, too, and he feels so right that I find the courage to answer.

"I want you to fuck me.”

Well, no. I want more than that from him. I want him to hold me in his arms, to caress my back in small comforting circles as we drift off to sleep together. I want to hear him whisper endearments in my ear, to see the sacred words I’ve never heard from a man form on his lips. I want him to carry me when I’m too drunk to stumble home. To call me in the late hours of the night just to hear my voice. I want to hear his heart beating in his chest. To kiss him on New Year’s Eve and to know that I’m the girl he’s taking home. I want it to be real.

But I can’t ask any of that of him, so a fuck will have to suffice.

He takes a step back, which is about as far as he can get from me in the cramped space, and leans against the sink vanity. Knitting his brows, he looks at me silently, as if assessing me. My hands fall from his ass to my sides, swinging there stupidly, uselessly. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I’m fighting the urge to bolt. What if I’ve just ruined everything? I want to know what he’s thinking, but at the same time I don’t think I can bear to know. The coarseness of my answer, the raw need for connection driving it, makes me worry that I’ve shattered whatever spell existed between us. The knowledge haunts me: _It’s gone. Whatever existed between us is gone._

We stand like this for several seconds, each one feeling like an eternity of being dragged naked over an arctic tundra. I’m freezing, fighting back violent shivers, and yet my entire body is on fire.

“Are you sure about that?” he finally asks, and the doubt lacing his voice makes me want to curl up and die.

_What kind of question is that?_ I won’t answer it because I’ve already told him what I want. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then he shouldn’t make me say it again. I’ve never been one to beg. Not for sex. And certainly not for love. I bite my lip, looking down, and my arms begin to cross defensively against my chest.

“Hey,” he says in a soft, admonishing tone. “Don’t do that.” He reaches out and takes each of my hands, coaxing them back down to my sides. We stand there for a moment like that, simply holding hands like a couple of bashful, idiotic schoolchildren, and then he presses his body to mine, erasing the space between us. His presence–his heat and intensity soaking into me–gives me the nerve finally to look back up at his face.

He looks like a man on fire being consumed by the flames. His forehead is creased, and his eyes are clouded with apprehension. Peeta leans his head down and closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is vulnerable and raw. “I want to, Katniss.” He pauses, swallowing with obvious difficulty. “God knows,” he adds gruffly, “I want to. It’s just… I haven’t been with anyone since–and I don’t know if… That is, how long… And you’re _you_. I just don’t want to fuck it up. You know?”

He’s so anxious he’s barely making sense, but I get the gist of what he’s telling me. And it’s ridiculous. We’re together, and unfathomably he seems to want me like I want him, and he’s worried about how long he’s going to last in an airplane bathroom?

I hook my fingers into the pockets of his jeans and release a shaky laugh, relieved his hesitation is anchored in something other than what he thinks about me. “Peeta, look where we are. How long do you think we have before the air marshal kicks in the door?”

He gives me a crooked, boyish grin and looks around the confined space. “Fair enough,” he chuckles, but when he looks back down at me, his grin slides off his face, replaced with an earnest expression. “It’s just… I want it to be good for you… _I_ want to be good for you.”

It’s times like these I wish I were better with words. I would dispel his worries and somehow build up his confidence, make him understand that his fears are baseless. I would tell him that while he’s worried I could do better, I’m only thinking about how anyone else would be worse. I’d hold his face in my hands and tell him that the sex didn’t matter, that the simple fact of him wanting me made me feel like I was flying at 39,000 feet. I would tell him that I’m not _her_ , that there’s nothing–and _nobody_ –else in this world that I want.

I don’t know how to do that, though, so I say what little I can. “It will be,” I promise him, “and you are.”

His gaze fills with something that looks like hope, and I understand how fragile he must feel, how tenuous and unreliable a thing hope can be. It can lie to you. Betray you. Abandon you.

But it is also the thing that saves you, hauling your ass out of the flaming wreckage that was once your life.

He exhales and reaches his right hand into his back pocket, retrieving his wallet, a worn brown leather billfold. Opening it, he plucks a red foil packet from behind the bills. “This can’t look good to you,” he says, staring at the condom, unwilling to meet my eyes. “But it’s not like that. Delly put it in there after the breakup. Said it might help me get laid eventually.”

I laugh, and the sound makes him lift his eyes from where they were resting to meet mine. “Well, you’ll have to thank her,” I say, taking the condom from his hand and tossing it onto the counter, “for being right.”

Peeta smiles at me, his face just inches from my own, and I reach out and lightly brush the freckles on his cheek. He captures my hand in his and, turning his head, tenderly grazes the inside of my wrist with a kiss. His lips drag leisurely along the sensitive skin, and I roll my eyes back in response. His mouth feels so good on me, so perfect, it makes me throb.

Eagerly, I peel his flannel shirt off his shoulders, and as it falls down his back he carelessly yanks it off his arms and flings it behind him on the counter, heedless to where it lands. His piercing blue eyes stay locked on mine, and just the way he’s staring at me makes me so incredibly wet.

Careful not to knock me with his elbows, he lifts his t-shirt over his head and drops it on his flannel, allowing me to greedily soak in the sight of his naked torso. He’s so well-defined he doesn’t even look real, and I lament that he’s going to have to see me topless next. _There’s no way I can compare to that_ , I think. I shamelessly drag my eyes over him, admiring his broad, muscular shoulders, peppered with freckles, and his sculpted arms. It looks like he could easily throw a hundred pound bag of flour over his shoulders like it was nothing at all. My eyes glide downward to his abdomen, to the muscles that point in a “V” and disappear below his waistband, to the trail of soft hair below his navel. I reach out and touch him there, delicately running my fingers through it.

Peeta leans down and kisses me gently. He pulls back a fraction of an inch and murmurs, “Your turn,” his breath tickling my face.

He doesn’t wait for a response before he grabs my hoodie and shirt from the bottom hem and lifts them off me in one quick movement. As the garments clear my head, he plants a kiss on my lips. My arms rest against the wall above my head, and as the sleeves pass over my arms, I notice his gaze affix to my hands. He drops my clothes on top of his in a messy pile without looking, and with his left hand he pins my arms by my wrists, nudging my legs apart with his knee and pressing his body tightly against me. The heat of his body contrasts to the cold, sterile wall of the plane against my back, and this, coupled with the feeling of our bare skin touching, makes my flesh break out into goosebumps.

He stoops his head down and nuzzles the crook of my neck, rubbing his stubble against it. His hands slide down my arms and make their way around my back, making short work of unhooking my bra clasp. As the fabric gives beneath his fingers, he pulls back to take in the sight of me. I slide each strap off my shoulders, one at a time, holding the fabric of my bra loosely to my chest. Suddenly, I’m feeling bashful, scared of what he’ll think. He reaches forward and deftly takes the bra from my hands, casting it aside. Neither of us knows or cares where it falls.

He stands there, eyes scanning the swell of my breasts. "God you’re so beautiful,” he says, a hint of something like awe in his tone.

His hands skim down my body to the waistband of my shorts, and he grabs the fabric and tugs it downward, stooping as much as the space will allow to take them off for me. They fall down to my ankles, and I impatiently kick them aside. As he stoops, I watch his eyes dance downward, first over my breasts, and then settling on my ribcage, to where I have a large, winding tattoo of a black bird in flight. Peeta leans forward, gripping me by my torso, and kisses it.

“Fuck, that’s so sexy. I didn’t expect that at all,” he groans. He drags his tongue over it, a wet, deliberate action that makes me grasp uselessly at his hair, whimpering his name.

Peeta stands up to full height, running his tongue along my body, carelessly flicking my nipples along the way, and then meets my stare. My eyes are screaming to be fucked, I know, and his eyes promise that he intends to do exactly that. He moves in for a kiss, and I slant my head and open my mouth, my tongue waiting for his the instant our lips touch. As he kisses me I feel his broad hands loop into the fabric of my panties.

Leaning into him, I plant my hands on his firm abdomen and press my breasts to his chest. I break for air, giving his shoulder a quick bite that turns to a lick when I hear him growl my name. His hands run over the rounded slope of my ass, and he grips me to him, pressing himself against me. “Your turn,” I tell him, barely able to recognize my own voice. My fingers coyly dip below the waistband of his boxers, grazing the head of his cock. My index finger swipes at the head, which is leaking precum, and runs down along the front of the shaft.

“Katniss,” he groans. “I want to make you come first.”

Peeta looks down at me with those exquisite blue eyes I’ve already grown so familiar with, and silently asks me a question. I nod. He can have anything; he only needs to ask.

He surprises me by turning me around and drawing me against his chest, cradling my body to his with his left arm while his right hand reaches down into my panties to massage my throbbing clit. He draws in a sharp breath as he touches me, feeling my arousal coat his fingers. They trace unhurried circles on the bundle of nerves, and the sensation is so exquisite I grind against his back and desperately clutch at his flexed forearm. His cock presses against my ass, and when I moan his name I can feel it twitching against my body.

I jump when someone knocks on the door, and Peeta buries his face into my neck to stifle his laughter. A voice outside the door, unfamiliar and low, says, “I think it’s going to be a while. I saw the woman who went in there, and she was looking a little… peaked. I think she might need to work something out of her system.” I clasp my hand to my mouth, silently laughing. My laughter dies in my throat and turns into an agonized groan when Peeta’s fingers dip down along my wet folds, gently tracing their lines, teasing me around my entrance.

“Fucking do it,” I plead desperately.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers into my neck, kissing me as he dips one, then two fingers inside me. His fingers are thick and move in smooth, steady circles. A familiar tingling begins to build within me, starting in my fingers and toes and radiating to my core. I didn’t even know it was possible to come like this, but suddenly I can’t catch my breath, and I’m writhing rhythmically against Peeta’s body, softly moaning imprecations that could be curses but are most likely total nonsense. I’m senseless and dizzy, and all I’m left with is my overwhelming need to feel him inside of me.

I come hard, clenching around his fingers, and I throw my head back against his shoulder, riding out my orgasm. He chuckles quietly into my ear. “You’re so unbelievably sexy, do you know that?” His fingers wend their way back to my clit, swiping it teasingly. With each stroke, I shudder, leaning bonelessly against him for support.

Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I turn around and hastily unzip his jeans. Peeta leans down, biting and nipping at my collarbone, while I tug open the fly of his boxers and reach in, wrapping my hands around him. He makes a strangled sound as I touch his soft skin, his mouth sucking hard enough on my collarbone to bruise me.

I pull back slightly to watch his cock spring free, slapping against his stomach. I can’t help my expression at the sight of him.

“That bad, huh?” he asks.

I’m at a loss for words. He’s thicker than I imagined and so hard for me. And somehow, against all rules of reason and probability, I am standing virtually naked in an airplane bathroom with Peeta Mellark, the boy I’ve wanted for years and who is, in fact, more wonderful than I could have even possibly imagined, and we are about to have sex. I want to pinch myself. This can’t be really happening.

After planting a kiss on his lips, I look up into his eyes, which are teasing and defenseless in equal parts. “No,” I answer him honestly, “that good.” How can he not know how perfect he is, I wonder. Why has no one ever told him?

Without breaking our gaze, I reach behind him and fumble beneath our clothes, searching for the condom. When I find it, I tear the package open with my teeth, my hand stroking his shaft. My left hand dips down to join my right, and I slip the condom over the head of his penis, slowly rolling it down his length.

He clutches at my neck with both his hands and passionately kisses me. The kiss is messy and fevered, and before we can even break for air his hands have slid down my body, grasping my ass. He hoists me up in one easy movement, walking us to the wall. I curl my legs around him, my arms kneading the muscles of his shoulders, and I gasp as my back makes contact with the chilled wall. Peeta’s head dips down, suckling my breasts, his tongue worrying the nipples. I can feel my arousal slick against his stomach.

“Now, Peeta,” I beg him, and, because I can’t ask him to make love to me, I tell him, “I want you to fuck me now.”

He groans at the urgency in my voice and, pushing aside the flimsy fabric of my underwear, he slowly lowers me down onto him, his cock finding its way to my entrance. I gasp at the touch of him pressing into me, and he eases in gently, allowing me to stretch for him and to adjust to the sensation of being held within me. I close my eyes so that he can’t see the tears welling in them. I don’t want him to think that I’m in pain when, in fact, I’ve never felt so whole in my life.

He presses his forehead to mine and sighs, “You’re so tight.”

I allow one of my hands to drop from his shoulder. It makes its way down to where we are connected, where he has disappeared inside me. He’s so deep, and I moan loudly at the thought. He greedily presses his mouth to mine, swallowing the sound. As the hum of my voice makes its way into his, he carefully begins to pump.

His strokes are long and measured, and the friction rubs me in just the right spot. We fall into a rhythm, covering each other with kisses on our necks, shoulders, foreheads, cheeks, and mouths. His strokes begin to pick up intensity, and I bite onto his shoulder to fight the urge to cry out. My fingers dig into his back, and I find immense satisfaction in knowing that I am leaving crescent-shaped marks behind in my wake. If I can’t be anything more permanent to him, at least he’ll have a small reminder of me for the next few days.

I can feel my second orgasm building swiftly within me, and as I come, mewling his name, my body melts against him. His hands clutch my ass tightly, and I can feel his cock pulsing inside me as he comes shortly after, spilling into the condom.

We remain connected, motionless against the wall, each struggling to catch our breath. He brushes my sweaty locks away from my face and kisses the bridge of my nose, my cheeks, the bow of my mouth, and then my lips. In my post-orgasmic euphoria, I fight the urge to tell him how much I fucking love him.

When he pulls out of me, I instantly miss him.

He lowers me to the ground and stoops down, collecting my fallen clothing and handing it to me, before he removes the condom and cleans himself off with a tissue.

I have no idea what to say to him at this point, where we go from here, so I’m almost glad when we hear another another knock on the door–or, rather, a meticulous series of knocks communicating some sort of warning to us.

“You should head out first,” Peeta says, sliding his undershirt on over his head.

I follow suit, hastily throwing my clothes back on, our bodies awkwardly bumping up against each other as we dress ourselves. I glance briefly in the mirror and notice that I’m sporting a very obvious just-been-screwed glow. There’s no way to cover that up, so I smooth my hair down and accept that anyone paying attention will know exactly what, and who, I’ve been doing in the lavatory.

“I’ll see you,” I tell him with a nervous smile, all the things I want to tell him escaping me.

I unlock the door and step outside into the aisle, expecting thunderous applause or the commanding yell of an air marshal instructing me to put my hands in the air where he can see them. Instead, I see the bronze-haired passenger from the row behind me standing in the doorway of the galley, leaning casually against the doorframe. He’s facing the red-haired flight attendant, and whatever he has been saying to her has her blushing and giggling profusely. At the sound of the opening lavatory door, he briefly glances over his shoulder. He thwacks a packet of sugar against the counter and, tearing it open, pours the contents into his mouth. The flight attendant watches him, transfixed.

“Oh yeah, that’s really good,” he moans in a comic impression of an orgasm.

Okay, so he may have been doing us a favor by distracting the flight attendant, but the guy is still a total dick.

Walking as casually as I can back to my seat, I carefully sit down, my body delightfully sore. My heart begins to thunder in my chest as I think about what I did with Peeta. It wasn’t just sex. Not to me, anyway. I realize how deeply invested I am in him already after only several short hours. I don’t want him to just be a guy who passed through my life. I want him to be _the_ guy in my life.

Peeta will be coming back in a few short moments, and I still have no idea what to say to him. What was probably nothing more than rebound sex for him means everything to me. I’m scared by the realization of how much it means, of how easily he could break me now. He holds all the power in his broad hands.

I only hope he lets me down gently.

Reaching into the seat back, I grab the in-flight magazine and open it to some bullshit article about Tuscon that I pretend to read in order to give my eyes somewhere to look other than the aisle.

I feel his body standing next to me before I hear him. The hairs on my arms stand up at his proximity, as if they’re climbing to reach him. Afraid to look up, I flip the page casually, breathing deeply to try to control my shaking hands.

“I hear Tucson is lovely this time of year,” he quips. “Or so Pan Em Air would have us believe.” His open hand raps on the back of my chair. “Mind if I join you?” he asks, an edge to his voice.

“Not at all,” I say, shaking my head. I stand up and step aside so that Peeta can take his place next to me.

We sit there in an awkward silence, neither one of us saying anything. My heart hammers out a furious rhythm as I wait for him to speak the words, the ones that will break me. That it was a mistake. Or that it was just a good time. Or “thanks for breaking that dry spell.”

I can’t imagine he has anything to tell me that I would want to hear.


	4. Arrivals

“You need to get your shit together, Mellark. Now.”

The man staring back at me in the mirror looks abject and ashamed. He could also use a shave, but that’s beside the point. I press the knob on top of the faucet to start the spray of water, and, apathetic to the fact that it’s nonpotable, I bend down and splash it on his– _my_ –face to try to dispel the self-loathing thoughts that are battering me into dust. I use one of the gritty paper hand towels to dry my face, scouring my flesh in some hopeless effort to exfoliate my filthy mind.

_There’s no way she didn’t feel that_ , I think, cursing myself. When the turbulence caused her to bump into me, she would have definitely felt my erection. I adjust myself in my boxers, uncomfortable from my five hour hard on. It’s ridiculous, this effect she has on me. Is there even a word for it? She makes me feel exactly like some stupid adolescent all over again, unable to control the way my body reacts the minute I’m in the same room as her.

I close my eyes, and I’m back in that cursed gymnasium. I can see her through the dark haze of the room, leaning against the painted concrete wall, her arms crossed unwelcomingly. Her russet orange dress stands out, a stark contrast to the swirling shades of green on the wall mural behind her. I approach her, my head in a fog, and nothing seems real. Everything seems… shiny somehow. Maybe it's the DJ's flashing strobelights, but it's like this is happening to someone else, and I’m actually locked away in another room somewhere, safely observing the action from afar.

Before I can fathom what’s happened, I’ve shuffled up to her, and she mutters “okay” to something I’ve asked, and then she’s standing excruciatingly close to me, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. We sway together awkwardly to “No One,” and the music is sweet, but all I’m thinking about is how much more beautiful the song would be if Katniss were singing it and how badly I wish I could kiss her, to feel those soft pink lips on mine as we move to the music. I can’t even bear to look at her for fear of falling apart, so I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, focusing on anything I can that isn’t her. It’s an impossible task because it seems like she’s everywhere and everything, that the entire world has been subsumed by her.

My pulse hammers in my ears, and I’m sweaty and shaking and praying she doesn’t notice that my arms are unsteady. Then it happens: the boner heard ‘round the world. I can feel it steadily creeping on, the traitorous tingling and rushing of blood, and just standing near her with the smooth, bare olive skin of her shoulders in the periphery of my vision, her perfectly round breasts brushing lightly against my chest, and the fruity scent of whatever perfume she’d put on for the occasion wafting through the air, has made my body totally rebel.

I go rigid, nervous and wanting to puke from the shame of it. Because I want her, yes. There is no doubt that I desperately want to have sex with Katniss Everdeen. But that’s not all I want from her, not even close. I do what little I can to hide what’s happening by subtly pulling away a few inches from her–enough so that she doesn’t accidentally brush against me, but not far enough for her to see the tenting in my pants. As soon as the song ends, my arms drop from her waist, and hers fall from my shoulders and cross against her chest again. She mumbles something like "bye," and I dash away as quickly as I can, too intent on disappearing into the nearest men’s room to notice until much later that she seemed as eager to get away from me as I had been to get away from her. She must have noticed my erection, and the thought makes me want to die from shame.

Seven years later, and it seems like some things never change.

I’m seriously at risk of chasing her off, if I haven’t already. I’m coming on way too strong, but I can’t help it. The things I’m learning about her only make me want her more: the sound of her laugh, husky and full-throated, the way her cheeks flush like ripe apples when she grins, the look she gets in her eyes when I do something nice for her, even something as simple as sharing a cookie. I can tell she’s deeply introspective, fiercely protective. And loyal. I find myself contemplating what that must be like, being loved by someone loyal. Just the thought makes my stomach grind painfully.

There’s an innocence to her, an uncertainty and hesitation to opening herself up, but the opposite is also true. She seems so knowing, her steel-gray eyes cutting right through whatever flimsy walls I’ve built around myself, and yet there’s an endearing vulnerability to her, the irrefutable inability to hide behind a mask.

She’s an enigma to me, and I feel like I could spend every day of the rest of my life savoring the task of puzzling her out. I want her with every inch of my treasonous body, but I want _that_ more. To know her.

I smack my face twice sharply with both hands and then grip the countertop, staring intently into the mirror for a last minute pep-talk.

“Okay, Mellark. Here’s what you’re going to do. Forget about what just happened. You’re going to _fucking_ cool it. You’re going to walk out there, find out what her plans are in New York. Then you’re going to ask her out. Easy as 1,2,3: chill, plans, date.”

The guy in the mirror looks ready, so I rap my knuckles once on the countertop and turn to the door, unlocking it and pulling it toward me to open it.

All my resolve vanishes the minute I see her standing on the opposite side.

She has a look of determination drawn on every surface of her face, and the way she’s tapping her foot anxiously on the floor like a kid with an overactive bladder makes me smile. She is as adorable as she is terrifying, and there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to find the words to actually ask this woman out on a date.

I begin to step out to allow her access to the bathroom, but she catches me off-guard with her hand, which is suddenly on my chest. It feels hot through the fabric of my shirt, and my mouth falls open at her touch. It actually feels like she is searing my flesh through my clothes; each of her slender fingers presses into my chest as if to mark me. I allow her to propel me backward into the lavatory, and the quarters are so tight we have no choice but to stand squeezed against each other. At the crush of our bodies my cock twitches, betraying me again. Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. In these tight quarters, there’s no point in trying to hide my arousal. If she didn’t notice it before, then the feeling in her stomach– _against_ her stomach–is a dead giveaway.

It’s claustrophobic in here, our bodies touching in every possible place up to our necks. I couldn’t escape her if I wanted to. Which, to be clear, I don’t. Not for a second. I fight the feelings of constriction binding my chest and search for words–any words–that I can use to ask her what’s going on.

I find my voice long enough to ask her what she’s doing, because now I’m worried that she’s pinned me in here to confront me about what just happened in the aisle, about what’s happening again in here. I find the words, opting to settle on a simple apology for taking things too far, when she clutches my shirt, holding me tighter to her, and our mouths find their way to each other.

Holy shit. She wants this, too. With this epiphany, my reservations shear away. I wrap my arms around her and push her hard against the door, my body melting into hers. She yelps out, clutching at her back, and I’m instantly regretful for losing myself. If we weren’t crammed in this damn closet I’d turn her around and caress her back, penitently kissing her in every spot where she’d connected with the door.

I don't want to hurt her again, so I try to put the brakes on whatever we’re doing. If she’s injured, though, she doesn’t seem bothered by it because, before I can stop us, her hands are on me again. Her nimble fingers dance their way up my chest, and I close my eyes to savor each subtle movement. Here, finally, in this place I allow myself to enjoy her touch, to let my desire for her drive me instead of paralyzing me.

I press her against the smooth surface of the bathroom wall and dig my fingers into her hips, nestling my face against the delicate skin of her neck, inhaling her scent. I fight against all my needs and wants, trying to be noble despite what my body tells me to do to her. And I know it’s not enough just to feel her clothed body on mine, to smell the girly lotions and perfumes she uses to cover her natural musk. I want to taste her, to feel her skin rubbing on mine. I want, I _need_ , to hear her say my name as she comes undone. I need to touch her, to explore every inch of her. So I begin to nip and lick at her neck, to taste her skin, salty from dried sweat. Slowly, hesitantly, so that she can stop me if she wants, I place my hands on the bare skin of her waist. She’s agonizingly soft and warm, and, touching her, I am a man arrived at a new shore, terrified and excited in equal measure at what I will discover ahead.

She doesn’t stop me. As my hands make their way to her breasts, cupping and then teasing them with my fingers, she bucks her hips against mine. I involuntarily thrust mine against hers in response, and she moans at the friction. I feel myself grow impossibly harder at the sound, and selfishly thrust again to find some relief.

I don’t trust my voice above a whisper, so I ask her softly what she wants, exhaling the words into the shell of her ear. Her ragged breath is hot and moist on my neck and sends chills coursing down my spine.

I’m desperately hoping that she will ask me to touch her, to slip my fingers into her panties so that I can make her come. I’m praying that she lets me unclasp her bra so that I can trace shapes on her breasts with my tongue.

The words that spill out of her mouth take me completely by surprise.

Fuck her. She wants me to _fuck_ her.

I think the last time I allowed myself to hazard that thought about her, I was nineteen, jerking off in a dorm shower, pining like a loser for the girl who got away after a disastrous first (and only) date with some sorority girl named, I think, Amber. I couldn’t remember Amber’s face five minutes after I left the bar, but every line of Katniss’ face was etched into my memory. As the shower water, already lukewarm, trickled down my back, I imagined driving into Katniss, fast and hard, watching her gasp and moan and writhe beneath me. I came just as someone pulled the fire alarm, and only then did the harsh reality of my pathetic situation wash over me. I was pining after a girl I’d never see again, and so I dejectedly dried myself off, dressed, shambled out of the dorm, and carried on with my life. That included a string of seemingly pointless relationships, culminating in the one I had with Clove. And then today _she_ just strolls back into my life, and suddenly everything makes sense.

I’d never considered the actual possibility I’d get to have sex with Katniss Everdeen, that she'd ask me, no, _command_ me, to have sex with her.

After she tells me that she wants me to fuck her, the words hang in the air, raw and coarse and demanding, and, while I’d like nothing more than to do that, I know I’m already way past the point of being able to do _only_ that.

Leaning against the counter, I appraise the situation. I’d been hoping for a phone number from her. The promise of a date. Time to do this right. What she wants, though, is for right here, right now. She’s not in it for the long game. I catch myself frowning because I don’t know if this is just some temporary madness on her part, an effect of the alcohol, if it’s something that she’ll regret in an hour and then feel like I’ve somehow taken advantage of her. I frown because I want time with Katniss, the chance to know her, and then to earn the right to “fuck” her.

But I’ll settle for whatever she’s willing to give me because she’s everything I’ve always wanted. Maybe that _is_ taking advantage. I don’t know.

I see her cross her arms defensively, and that’s no good because I can tell she feels like I’m rejecting her when, in fact, the opposite is true. I want more from her than she’s willing to offer, not less. Taking her hands in mine, those exquisitely soft, small hands, I try, inarticulately, to confess something of my feelings to her, the worry that I haven’t had sex in months and won’t last long. I don’t tell her that she isn’t just any woman, that this isn’t just sex, and that the mere thought of making love to her makes me want to explode. I’m nervous and keyed up, and if I disappoint her I’ll never let myself live that down.

Her easy laughter and reassuring words dare me to hope, though. She tells me it will be good for her, that _I_ am good for her. She tells me these things, and my heart erupts in my chest, leaving behind a pulsating mess of rubble and debris. Staring into her smoky eyes, I vow to myself to live up to these assurances. _It will be. I am_.

Exhaling nervously, I reach into my wallet and pluck out the Trojan that Delly had put there two months ago when my constant presence in the apartment cockblocked her and her boyfriend Thom one too many times. Apparently there is a limit, after all, to how many times you can watch _Friends_ with your best friend and her boyfriend, pretending not to notice what their hands are doing under the blanket. The condom is warm from the heat of my body, and it makes me think about the heat of Katniss’ body and how I want nothing more than to feel her wrapped around me, to root myself deep inside her. It can’t look good to her that I have it, but I’ve never been more thankful for Delly’s well-intentioned meddling. I exonerate myself the best I can, hoping Katniss doesn’t mistake me for a guy with moves–although, at this point, I would hope I’ve made it patently clear to her that there isn’t a single move in my entire playbook.

She surprises me again, tossing the condom aside casually and reaching out for me, caressing my face. I trap her wrist, kissing it, and glance at the tracery of fine blue veins just beneath her skin. Even her veins are beautiful, and if thinking that doesn’t mean I’m royally screwed for her, then nothing does.

What happens next is a blur of kissing and heavy breathing and panting. A rustling of falling clothing, light feathery touches, my leg between hers, nudging them apart to press closer to her warm center, and then I’m tearing the loose fabric of her bra away from her to take in the sight of her body. I allow my eyes to greedily rake over her. A tattoo of a black bird in flight winds around her torso, and as I remove her ridiculously tiny shorts to reveal her wonderfully mismatched underpants I can’t resist licking the tattoo, pressing my tongue to it and worshipping at it like it’s a secret altar built just for me.

Moving back up her body, I take each of her nipples into my mouth in turn, gently biting them, coaxing them into sharp peaks with my teeth, and then licking them in contrition. She moans, and the sound travels directly to my groin. Her hands find their way into my pants, and she starts stroking my shaft. The feel of her skin on mine, the fervor with which she’s holding onto me, makes me want to explode. I won’t make it to the sex if she keeps touching me like that, so I tell her that I want to make her come first. That isn’t really optional; in order for this to work, she _needs_ to come first.

I look into her eyes, silently asking permission to touch her, and when she nods I would have kissed the sky if I weren’t already flying. I turn her around and hold her tightly to me so that I can feel as much of her skin on mine as possible. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I dip my hand down beneath the fabric of her underwear and touch her, stroking her clit and then, after some potentially disastrous knocking at the door, I eventually trace her folds, moving my fingers through her warm, slick arousal. My cock twitches as she leans against me, grinding and moaning and, when I suck on her neck and feel her knees buckling, I hold her up and dip my fingers inside her, fucking her with my hand.

She comes with my fingers inside her, and I can feel her walls spasming around my hand, squeezing me tightly. “Holyshitgoddamn,” she moans, the husky, raspy sounds of her satisfaction making me chuckle. I want to hear her make those sounds while I’m inside her, but I vow to wait until she asks me– _if_ she asks–in case she’s changed her mind. My hand moves languidly around her, drawing circles, and her body begins to shudder from the overstimulation.

Pushing away from me she turns around, and without ceremony reaches into my pants, releasing me. I gasp as she touches me, desperate for her. My dick slaps against my stomach, angry and hard, and I’m bemused by the expression on her face. She looks down at it, smirking, and stands motionless in front of me. I’m afraid to ask her what she’s thinking, so I try to pass it off as a joke.

“That bad, huh?” I ask her weakly, nervously wondering if her past experiences have led her to the conclusion that I’m less than stellar.

She leans forward and kisses me, our eyes locking. “No, that good,” she tells me, and at that moment I know there’s no way I’m going to fuck this girl. I’m going to give her everything I have, every bit of tenderness and passion, and even if it’s just for a short time, I’m going to hold nothing back from her. I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want her, right now, like this.

Katniss reaches over, grabbing the condom from the counter and, while pumping me, rips the packet open with her teeth. Her eyes never leave mine, and I could swear that we are having a silent conversation with each other, communicating something essential between us, something infinite. She rolls the latex down my length, pinching the tip of the condom. No woman has ever put a condom on me before, and it’s such an intimate act I can barely hold myself back as her hands glide down me. I kiss her passionately, sloppily, my tongue clashing with hers, and as soon as the condom is on, I grab her by her ass and scoop her up into my arms, pressing her roughly against the bathroom wall. She wraps her legs around me, the cold soles of her Chuck Taylors digging into the bare skin of my back. The sensation is just enough to tether me to reality.

I lavish her with bruising kisses wherever I can reach, sucking on her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, drawing her lower lip into my mouth and biting it until she hisses. Her hot arousal seeps onto my stomach, and as I kiss her she grinds against me, her legs squeezing my body tightly. I clutch her ass, and when she begs me to enter her, it takes me several seconds to process what is actually happening.

I am going to make love to Katniss Everdeen.

Lowering her slowly, I push the fabric of her panties to the side, my cock finding its way to her wet entrance without guidance. As I slide into her, I press my forehead to hers, breathing deeply to help me adjust to the sensation of being held by her. I hold still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being inside her. I gasp and tell her she feels so tight. It’s a cheap substitute for all the things I want to tell her: that she feels like home, that nothing could feel so right, that I fucking love her, that I want to do this with her my whole life.

Katniss’ hand drops down to where we are connected and groans. Selfishly I kiss her, swallowing the sound, claiming it for myself. _That sound is mine_ , I think. _She gave that to me_.

I think about what she's given me, and I start to roll my hips, her body rocking and tightening to match my rhythm. Her ass smacks against the wall of bathroom, adding to the sound of our thighs colliding against each other. As my momentum builds and my slow, long strokes become shorter, deeper, faster, I cover her with kisses. On her mouth, her brow, her cheeks, her temples. She digs her nails into my back, and the pain anchors me. I hope she leaves marks, little mementos to remind me that this was real. I thrust into her with more force, but my kisses grow gentler, lighter.

The sensation of her underwear rubbing against my shaft is almost more than I can bear. It reminds me of what we’re doing and where. This is illicit and illegal, and the knowledge that we are claiming each other like this makes me thrust deeper into her, her head falling back in ecstasy, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

We gasp together in tandem, sweating and needy and hungry for release, each goading the other on to climax. I want her to come for me, to feel her milking me to orgasm. She whimpers and moans and doesn’t appear to hear the dinging of the seatbelt light as the captain turns it on and instructs us to return to our seats because of turbulence. I can feel my legs trembling, but we’re locked in placed by the wall and sink, and so I don’t care if the damn plane plummets from the sky. I’m staying right where I am, like this. I couldn't think of a better way to die.

She buries her face into my neck and cries my name, holding me tightly, and bites my shoulder. I feel her walls squeezing around me as she comes. _Fuck, she is so perfect_.

She kisses me, and as we kiss I find my release. I pull my lips away just far enough to growl her name, drawing the sibilants out into a euphoric sound.

We rest motionless against the wall for a moment, panting and breathless. I smooth her hair away from her face and kiss her lovingly. I show her my feelings instead of speaking them, afraid of saying anything incongruous to what she thinks she might want.

I know one thing for certain, though: that wasn’t just a casual fuck. Whatever it is that Katniss and I just did, there’s no coming back from that.

I let her down, her legs slowly unwinding from my waist, and I grab whatever clothes I can for her before taking care of myself.

A warning knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. “You should head out first,” I tell her, throwing my undershirt back on as fast as possible.

We dress gingerly but quickly, trying not to knock each other with our elbows. In this tiny space, she seems to be looking everywhere but at me, and that gives me the distinct impression that Katniss is avoiding making eye contact. I brush it aside as paranoia. Maybe it’s more a matter of not knowing what to say next, of where to go from here. The problem isn’t that there’s nowhere to go; it’s that there is _everywhere_ to go, and I’m not sure where to start, either.

After she straightens her hair into place, she meets my eyes briefly. “I’ll see you,” she says with a twist of her lips. Then she slides the lock and slips out of the door, not looking back.

As the door shuts behind her I fight the urge to tap dance and sing _Zippity Do Dah_ and high five myself and hoot “Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!” to the sky. Whatever just happened in here was... well, it was beyond anything I’d ever imagined. It feels like the beginning of the rest of my life, of something huge, and I need to get back out there, take her hand in mine, and figure out what exactly that is.

I count to twenty, steadying my breath, and then take a final glance in the mirror. I run a hand through my hair to tame it and notice it’s slightly sweaty at the temples. Aside from that and the telltale flush on my face and neck, I seem presentable enough, so I slide the door open and step out into the aisle, expecting an air marshal to tackle me to the ground or fry my ass with a tazer.

Instead everybody is going about their own business, none the wiser to the fact that heart-stopping sex was just had ten feet and one flimsy plastic wall away from them. Mr. Calvin Klein is flirting with the flight attendant, leaning toward her to keep her pinned in the galley. As I walk past, I notice him slip her a piece of paper.

“You should call me the next time you’re in L.A.,” he murmurs with a smirk. “I’ll take you to the ocean.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the Pacific,” she giggles, oblivious to his brand of douchebaggery, and takes the paper, folding it and clutching it tightly in her fist.

I shake my head, chuckling to myself, and then look down the aisle at Katniss, who appears to be flipping determinedly through the in-flight magazine. I want her to look up and lock eyes with me, but she doesn’t, and the longer she keeps her gaze averted, the faster and lower my heart sinks.

Thirty seconds ago I was flying a mile high, and now I’m buried in a remote ocean trench, suffocated by the weight of world above me.

She doesn’t even look at me when I stand next to her and crack some lame joke about the article she’s reading. Standing, she steps aside, careful not to let my body brush hers as I pass to sit down. We each take our seats, buckling in, and she resumes reading, tapping her index finger restlessly on the page. If there’s something she wants to say to me, she gives no indication, wilfully choosing to ignore me instead.

I bite the inside of my cheek in frustration, tasting a sudden rush of sharp metallic blood, and I stare out the window, processing the mess of emotions I’m suddenly feeling. On the distant horizon I can see the sun sinking, slipping down silently toward the gentle slope of the earth. Endless miles of stratus clouds blanket the sky, reflecting the sun’s soft orange glow like a fiery ocean, and on any other occasion, I’d be awestruck by the sublime, incomprehensible beauty of it all. But right now I feel unfathomably alone and rejected, insignificant and desolated. The sight leaves me cold.

Her body leans away from me, legs crossed toward the aisle, as if she is magnetically repulsed by my proximity to her. Whereas, not more than five minutes ago, it was impossible for us to be close enough to each other. So what happened in that span of time to so radically alter things between us?

The sex. Plain and simple. It has to be that. It can only be that.

A wave of anger threatens to overtake me as I consider the possibility that she has just used me for sex, that she couldn’t even be troubled with the semblance of a date. This thought tastes acrid in my mouth, and I press my call button to summon the flight attendant for a drink so that I don’t choke on the idea.

As I gulp down my water in a few impatient swigs, I consider whether that is something she would do to me. To make me feel wanted, to take what she wanted, and then to discard me. I don’t know if that computes with my idea of the woman I thought I’d met, with her sweet words delivered with such ease and affection. I’m nauseous and aching to confront her about my doubts, but what would I even say? It’s not like she promised me a rose garden, or anything, for that matter. She said she wanted me to fuck her, and so I did. Despite how I felt or what I thought I perceived, she never actually gave me any indication that it meant more to her than that.

Right?

As the burning shades of the sunset fade to murky lavender and lapis, I realize I’m angry at myself, not her. She’s made no promises, and she doesn’t know how I feel. I can’t expect to hold her to some bullshit standard I’ve fabricated in my mind. If she believes we’ve just had casual sex, then it’s up to me to convince her otherwise. It’s up to me to ask for that date I want.

Turning to face her, I broach an innocuous topic, eager to feel her out, get her talking to me again. I anxiously drum my hand on my thigh, holding my voice steady to mask my nerves. As my head turns, hers follows suit, her gray eyes reluctantly meeting mine before flitting away.

“So, ah, I guess I never asked you why you’re traveling to New York.”

She exhales, folding the magazine but, I notice, keeping her thumb in place of the article. As if it’s so damn fascinating, the spas and resorts and eighteen-hole golf courses of Tucson. I try not to be bitter about it, but I want to toss the magazine aside, grasp her hands in mine and to tell her to hell with Arizona already, that everything we need is right here.

Her face lights up, despite our discomfiture. “I’ve got a job,” she answers, “recording background vocals.” She bites her lips, looking thoughtfully down toward her lap, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

My brows shoot up, genuinely pleased for her. “That’s great,” I reply, unable to fight the pride seeping into my voice. I take a chance and elbow her lightly, pleased when she doesn’t recoil at the light touch. “Although I pity the fool who has to sing over you.”

“You’re way too kind,” she laughs, shaking off the compliment. “These guys are so talented. I still don’t know how I managed to get the gig.”

I persist. “No. Seriously, Katniss. You’ve always had the most beautiful voice.” Every syllable takes its toll, but I tear each one from a place within myself and give them to her. She can do whatever she wants with them.

She looks pleased by the compliment but says nothing, sinking slightly in her seat and burying her hands in the center pocket of her hoodie.

I press my luck, desperate to keep her talking. “Wanna talk about that tattoo you’ve got?” I ask her flirtatiously, feeling the heat creep back into my body just at the thought of it.

She swallows noisily, a choked, gulping sound and looks away, toward the newlyweds across the aisle. The girl is sleeping on her husband’s shoulder, her soft snores faintly discernible over the whirring mechanical noises of the plane. Anxiously, I wait for her reply, knowing I’d made some mistake. After what seems like hours, she tears her eyes from the couple and answers. When she speaks, her voice is hushed and solemn. “I got it three years ago for my dad and sister after they… yeah. I got it _after_.”

“You don’t have to say it,” I whisper back, mortified. I don’t want her to have to say it.

She nods, biting her lip, and looks down, tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmurs gratefully, like I’ve just done her some massive favor.

Christ. I _licked_ it. The memorial she had tattooed on her body for her dead family, and I fucking licked it like it was something edible she’d put there for me. I groan and hold my head in my hands, disgusted with myself. “I am so sorry. Believe me, if I’d known, I would have never in a _million_ years…”

She waves her hand to stop me, her voice suddenly cold. “No. Don’t. It was… fine,” she says, turning away, effectively ending the discussion.

We fall back into an uncomfortable silence, and I seriously consider opening the door of the plane and hurtling myself out of it to end this agony. I’m a coward, so I don’t. And I don’t attempt to renew our conversation either. Instead we sit there, side by side but miles apart, never touching, never talking, for the duration of the flight.

******************

The seatbelt light flickers off, accompanied by one final ping, indicating that we’ve arrived safely at our gate and are free to gather our possessions and deplane. At the sound, Katniss unfastens her belt and leaps up, recklessly throwing open the overhead bin. She reaches for her bag and gives it one fierce, impatient tug, allowing it to fall in a hard thud at her feet. I watch her crouch down and unzip a pouch, rustling through it as if she were searching for something among its contents. If she’s looking for something, though, she doesn’t find it. She puts on a fine show, doing whatever she can to avoid saying anything to me, and, since the show is for my sole benefit, I watch. A bitter taste like bile mingles in the back of my mouth.

As soon as the jetway door opens, she closes her bag and stands up, her eyes slowly rising from the floor to meet mine. Finally. I’ve been waiting for her to look at me, to acknowledge me. I hate myself for it, but I’ve been craving the chance to stare into their cool, comforting depths, hoping they will hold some clue for me or some path forward out of whatever mess we’ve made between us. Instead her eyes are guarded and closed off. _This is it, then_ , I think. _This is where I lose her_.

I notice her gaze fall briefly to my mouth, as if she is looking for me to say something. I don’t. She rips her eyes away and doesn’t look at me again.

All the feelings within me rage in a relentless battle: the anger, resentment, rejection, and frustration clashing with hope, desire, lust, and the other thing I dare not name. And she’s made me feel all of it. I should hate her for it, but I can’t.

She speaks, and when she opens her mouth, the sound that comes out of it is lifeless and bland. “Okay,” she says, and then, as almost an afterthought, “bye.” She grabs the handle of her bag and walks away without waiting for my reply.

I sit there, stunned, trying to process what just happened. _What just happened. What the fuck just happened_.

Burying my head in my hands, I lean forward on my knees, fighting the urge to yell obscenities and completely break down. The realization dawns on me that whatever Clove did to me, however she hurt me, this is far worse. The minute Katniss Everdeen walked onto this plane, she had the audacity to make me feel alive. She made me feel valued and safe. She tricked me into believing that not all dreams are nightmares. That life can be good again. I groan into my hands, an anguished, despondent sound. She made me feel wanted. She called it fucking, but she shared something of herself with me that no one has ever shared before. I felt it. Then she shut me out and walked–no, _ran_ –away from me.

I deserve to know why she would do any of that to me.

I leap up from my seat and grab my backpack, pushing my way into the aisle with an apology to the other passengers. Snatching my carryon bag from the overhead, I dash off the plane and weave my way through the crowd of people clumped in the jetway. When I burst through the gate door into the terminal, I don’t know what to expect. Foolishly, I hope that she’ll be standing there, waiting for me after all, a smile on her face that would be the only act of contrition in this world that she’d ever need to show me.

But she’s gone.

Multitudes of people circle around me in a dizzying swarm. Children clutching stuffed animals and pillows, excited for an evening flight to visit their grandparents. Women in colorful headscarves stocking up on candy and magazines. Couples holding hands or squabbling about running late as they dash to their gate. Tired businessmen in tired suits, briefcases thumping against the legs of their wrinkled pants. The cacophony is deafening. It is like Babel, and I can’t understand a single word anyone is saying.

I can’t find Katniss. I can’t see her, can’t hear her, and my world spins on its axis.

LaGuardia is a claustrophobic mess of humanity, and searching for the one person in the world you’re desperate to see is like playing a masochistic version of _Where’s Waldo_? What if I can’t find her? What if she’s gone forever?

I start shuffling toward the exit, already defeated by the futility of my endeavor, when I spot her. She’s maybe 50 yards ahead of me, emerging from a women’s bathroom, the hot pink letters on the ass of her shorts gleaming at me like a beacon in the dark. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight, and despite the fact that my legs suddenly feel like leaden weights, I start to run.

I run as if my life depended on it.

The progress is maddeningly slow, like my feet are mired in black tar. I have to break my pace to skirt around the neverending lines at McDonalds and Au Bon Pain. I trip over an unattended bag, almost falling on my face, and I’m so busy trying to defuse the bomb in my own gut that I don’t even care what’s inside the damn thing. Katniss is fast, nimble on her feet and easily able to bob and weave her slender frame through the crowd, and no matter how quickly I try to run, I can't seem to make headway.

By the time I finally reach her we’re past the security checkpoint. When she hears the sound of a heavy tread approaching, she shoots a curious glance over her shoulder, freezing in her step when she sees it’s me.

“So that’s it then?” I splutter at her, panting and short of breath. “Just ‘okay’ and ‘bye,’ like it’s high school all over again?” I hadn’t planned any of this out, which I’m regretting, and I’m surprised and chagrined when the first words out of my mouth are confrontational.

She frowns at me, so deeply that the lines of her mouth curl downward like an emoji, and that’s when I notice her eyes are rimmed with red, and her cheeks are covered in angry splotches. _Wait, was she just crying_? The thought makes my stomach lurch. If she’s been crying, then I’m the one who did that to her.

Suddenly, I don’t feel rejected or used or inadequate. Those fears vanish like ephemera, erased by tears I somehow caused. She certainly wouldn't be crying if all I had been was a quick or shabby fuck to her. I feel like an asshole. I just don't know why.

"Katniss, did I do something wrong?” My voice is thick with worry, and I scan her face for answers, needing them immediately. My body is a raging, uncontained fire, a quaking mass of nerves. When she doesn’t answer, I anxiously continue. “Because I've been wracking my brain since I walked out of that bathroom, and I can't think of anything. Unless you regret having sex in the first place, but I want you to know that I don’t. Even now. It was the most incredible…” I think twice about elaborating, feeling too vulnerable to admit it to her, and I decide to shut up instead. “No, just forget it,” I add with a resigned sigh, rubbing the back of my neck.

At my last words, her face smooths into a stony mask. “Fine. I will,” she snaps, turning and storming away, the wheels of her bag squealing in protest.

_Damn, she walks fast_. I act instinctively, reaching out and grabbing her arm to stop her.

She whirls around and hisses, unwilling to cause a scene, “Let me go.”

I lean toward her, our faces mere inches apart, and all I want to do is capture her lips with mine. “I can’t,” I croak, my voice coming from some subterranean depth within me. I glance at her mouth, and I think I see her lower lip tremble, but the motion is so quick, so subtle, it’s almost imperceptible. I go on, “Not until you answer me. What did I do wrong? Because honestly? It feels like you're punishing me for something that's beyond my control.”

She yanks her arm free of my hand but makes no move to either leave or answer. We face each other, staring for several moments, and I notice her chest heaving like she’s short of breath, too. I can’t seem to breathe, and the way she’s glaring at me makes me feel like mine has caved in. _I am a concave man now_. She inhales sharply, and it is a staccato sound, serrated like a dagger.

“Katniss, I thought that after we… that we…” I pause to collect my thoughts and begin again, deciding to start with a question. “Don’t I even rate the truth from you?” I don’t attempt to mask my pain. Let her hear it.

She sighs heavily and looks down at her feet, absentmindedly kicking the tiled ground with the toe of her sneaker. When she finally answers, her words are directed to my shoes. “You’re right. You do.” She swallows, an awkward, gulping sound, like she’s being choked by an invisible hand. “I'm not trying to _punish_ you Peeta. I'm doing what I need to do, what I've always needed to do, to survive.”

Without thinking I reach out, lifting her chin with my index finger to make her eyes meet mine. She flinches at my touch, and although that feels like a direct stab to my heart, I’m thankful she doesn’t resist or look away. “Which is?” I press softly.

I’m beginning to understand that she is as broken and scared as I am.

Her eyes fill with tears, and I see the effort she’s making to fight them back. She holds herself rigid, every muscle in her body working in concert not to fall apart. I wish I could sweep her into my arms and hold her to my chest, stroking her soft hair. I think that, nestled there, she could tell me everything.

“Peeta, what did you mean in the bathroom when you said ‘you’re _you_ ’?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer before continuing, suddenly hurrying to get everything out, probably before she has the chance to reconsider. “Because after we… after I got back to my seat, that is, those words kept going through my mind, over and over, on this incessant loop. At first I’d hoped it was a compliment, but the way I see it, the only way that makes sense to me, is that you admitted what you really feel about me.”

I frown, my pulse thundering in my ears. I don’t know where she’s going with this, whether she misunderstood me or if I simply scared her off by acknowledging she’s always been something _more_ to me. But here she is broaching the “f” word, and although I’m more terrified than ever to tell her how I feel, I need to hear from her what she thinks those feelings might be.

“Yeah, and what’s that?” I ask, valiantly keeping all inflection at bay. I’m afraid any comment on my part will cause her to clam up again, and I can’t have that. If we stand any chance at all, I need to know what I’m fighting.

She shrugs in an imitation of nonchalance, but as her shoulders move I can see the physical effort it takes her. Crossing her arms, she looks over her shoulder at the constant stream of people passing us by. She gnaws her lip tensely, and after several moments she answers. Her reply is quiet, not much more than a murmur, and it’s almost lost in the chatter of the crowd. “I think maybe you were surprised by how low you had to stoop, fucking some random hard-luck case from high school just to get laid. That you were slumming it."

I can’t help but give an incredulous laugh, and as the sound escapes me, I immediately want to kick myself for it, to find some way to reel back into my stupid mouth. It’s just that never in a hundred lifetimes did I expect that answer out of her. At the sound she whips her head back to look at me. Her expression is venomous. “Are you actually laughing at me?” she spits.

I shake my head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Katniss. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s just that… You think you’re _below_ me? You think having sex with you is _stooping_? You’re telling me you really don’t know?” I cross my arms to mirror hers. “No, I don't accept that."

“Know what?” she demands, and her question is a tortured, hollow sound swallowed by the din.

I give a small rueful smile for wasted time and chances. “I thought it was so painfully obvious.”

I run a hand through my hair and take a steadying breath. Here goes everything.

“You were never just some random girl from high school. I liked you. A _lot_.”

At my words, her head shakes from side to side, disbelieving. “Sure you did. You’re telling me you liked me? _You_? That your friends didn’t just put you up to it?” She gives a scornful laugh and scowls at me. “I don’t believe that. I saw them laughing, Peeta. I saw them pushing you toward me, the freak wallflower, the one her own _best friend_ wouldn't dance with. You barely even _touched_ me. Didn’t talk to me. You pulled _away_ from me. It was like you hated every last second… like you were being burned alive just touching me.”

“Oh, I was,” I assent, nodding. “Just not how you think. My friends were pushing me because I was a gutless chickenshit for you, Katniss, and everyone _but_ you seemed to know it. I liked you so much that, the minute Hawthorne detached himself from your hip, which took all night, by the way, I finally plucked up the courage to ask you to dance after _four_ years of running away from you. And I totally choked. You were there, so close… _too_ close… and I was a disaster. So you’re right about all of that. I’ve always regretted it. I shouldn’t have cared so much about whether you knew I wanted you. I should have just held you close. Talked to you. I wish I could go back and change all of that.” I stop and shrug, not sure what else to say about it. I add, my voice cracking slightly, “But I can’t.”

She’s frozen stock-still, her arms dangling limply at her side. Her mouth hangs open, trying to form words, mawing silently at the air.

I let her words sink in, turning them over in my mind. “Katniss,” I ask her. “Were you watching me? I mean, if you saw my friends pushing me toward you, if you saw the way they were acting, you must have been watching us. And if you really thought that I’d only asked you to dance as some pathetic joke, then why didn’t you tell me to go to hell when I asked you? You said yes. I asked, and you said _yes_.”

Her olive skin has lost all its color, and she looks like she’s about to be violently ill. When I see her chin quivering, I hold my arms out and grasp her by the elbows to steady her. I lower my head, insisting that she meet my gaze. “I liked you," I say, squeezing her elbows, "...and did you like me, too?”

She nods her head wearily, her shoulders slumping in defeat, all of her fight gone.

I can’t help it. My face breaks out into an involuntary smile so wide it actually hurts. Katniss Everdeen liked me too, and even after all this time, it’s still there. Those feelings are still there.

“Let me go, Peeta,” she begs in a hoarse whisper. “This is cruel.”

“Cruel?” I drop my hands from her arms and run them through my hair, yanking it to vent my frustration. “How exactly is any of this _cruel_? I find out that the girl I always liked, _aka you_ , always liked me, too, and this is life being cruel and not absolutely _fucking_ perfect?”

My new knowledge has made me brave, and I take her hand in mine, holding it by my side to keep her close to me. “What’s really going on here, Katniss?” I ask. “You can trust me. Tell me.”

The way she looks at me, like a dying doe approached by the hunter who has shot it down, makes me nervous about what she’s withholding, and my smile falters along with my confidence. “What are you not telling me? Did I do something wrong? Or is it something that’s wrong with me?” I stumble back, galled. “Oh god, it’s _me_ , isn’t it?”

She reacts to something in my expression, and this time she’s the one who reaches out to comfort me. “No, it’s not that at all,” she says in a panicked voice. “I don’t want you to think that, so please, please don’t. Please.”

She turns her face away and lets out a strangled sob. The tears have begun to stream down her face, and her shoulders heave as she finally lets herself cry. She whimpers, frantically wiping at her face. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

My heart shatters at the sight, and I can’t help myself. I take her in my arms, pressing her to my chest. She melts into me, her hands clutching my waist to hold me closer. After several minutes her breathing evens out. She begins to speak, her voice muffled by the fabric of my shirt, “The thing is, you’re fucking fantastic, Peeta, and _that’s_ the problem.”

Her hands give my waist a final squeeze before she steps out of my arms. She wipes the tears off her face, taking a cleansing breath, and forges ahead. “The problem is that, childhood crushes aside, you’re going to go on with your wonderful life, never thinking twice about _this_ ,” she says, gesturing between the two of us, “and I’ll have just been some… some…” She looks around us, searching for the right word. She nods to herself when she finds it. She closes her eyes, tasting the bitterness of her words. “I’ll have just been some layover on your way to the next great thing.”

Her fragility awakens something in me I never knew existed. I erase the distance between our bodies instantly, holding her face in my hands and swiping away errant tears with my thumbs. Her entire face trembles at my touch, and when she breathes, the effort is so great her lower lip shudders inward. I look deeply into her eyes so that she knows how serious I am, and I gently chide her, "Katniss, you’re not a layover. You could never be a layover.” I press my forehead to hers, holding eye contact, and I tell her, “ _You_ are the next great thing."

Shutting her eyes, she soaks in the sound of my words, and I seal my promise with a tender kiss.

I don't tell her that I wish she could have been my first great thing, my only great thing. Or that I want her to be my last great thing.

There could be time enough for that, later.

Her lips curl into a smile, and I can feel their flesh grow taut as they brush against mine. The smile blooms on the rest of her face, the apples of her cheeks pushing against the palms of my hands, the corners of her closed eyes crinkling. I open my eyes, and bask in the sight, a smile finding its way to my face, too. I kiss each of her closed eyelids and then her forehead.

A gin-soaked voice interrupts my reverie. It is as grating as a sharp spike to the eardrum, and, without looking, I already know it’s the drunk from the row behind us. He snorts, “You call that a kiss?"

I shoot him a dirty look as he coasts by us cackling. He flashes a thumbs up at Katniss, and then disappears past the baggage claim carousels and out into the night. I turn back to her to commiserate. “That guy was the worst, right?”

I’m surprised to see a sparkle in her eyes from some source of unexplained merriment. “Oh, I don’t know,” she demurs. “He may have passed along one or two decent pieces of advice in his time.”

I arch an eyebrow at her, intrigued. “Oh? So you’re telling me what… I owe the guy a handshake?”

She laughs and nods, the sound of her laughter and the coy look on her face making my heart pound. “Something like that, maybe,” she replies.

“Care to tell me what ‘decent’ advice the old crank ‘passed along’?” I poke her rib flirtatiously, not minding for a second how childlike I feel with her.

She grows serious, winding both arms around my shoulders to pull me down to her. “That you should kiss like _this_ ,” she says throatily, pressing a thigh gently between my legs and bringing her lips to mine. I moan as her tongue parts my lips, eagerly finding its way into my mouth. My arms curl around her waist, my hands planting themselves firmly against the small of her back, and as I lean into the kiss, she dips backward slightly from the weight of my body against hers. My hands slide around the planes of her back, up along her spine, my finger catching on her bra strap. As I explore her body, I feel one of her hands make its way down to my stomach, sneaking beneath my shirt. It wraps itself around my waist, her thumb stroking my abdomen in gradual circles. My muscles clench at her touch, the sensation radiating directly to my groin.

I’m lost in her, completely absorbed in her, and once again I find myself thinking that Katniss Everdeen has subsumed the rest of the world.

We’re only brought back to reality when a woman lugging three small children uncomfortably coughs in our direction to get our attention. We tear ourselves from each other’s arms, which is probably fortunate because I’m about ten seconds away from finding a dark corner somewhere where I can push Katniss against a wall and make love to her all over again.

Touching her disheveled hair and swollen lips, she laments, “God, I must be such a mess.” She uselessly tries to smooth out her wrinkled clothes. “I mean, I was crying, and I’m such an ugly cryer…Ugh, just don’t look at me.”

I laugh, effectively cutting her off. “No, you look perfect. I happen to think the mussed hair/crooked clothing look is pretty sexy on you, considering how you got that way in the first place.” I chuckle at the blush creeping its way onto her face. I never knew I could make a woman blush, and not just any woman. _Her_.

“As for the crying,” I add, “You’re not an ugly cryer. I’m just gonna work hard not to give you a reason to do that again, okay?”

“Okay,” she answers, smiling sweetly at me, a blissful expression on her face. After a couple moments of silently gawking at each other she looks around. “I guess I should go to the bathroom to freshen up.”

I prod her with an elbow and joke, well, _half-joke_ , “Want some company?”

She lands a soft punch on my abdomen and plants another kiss on me. “You wish, Mellark.” She looks down at her luggage. “Think I can trust you to watch this, or are you going to try to smuggle some sort of illicit substance in it?”

I laugh and wave her away. “Go on. I’ve got it,” I assure her, feeling only slightly guilty for drinking in the sight of her ass as she walks away. I don’t know how I’m supposed to function with her being in the same city as me, not being _with_ me. I’ve got to see her again.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I take it off airplane mode. A text comes through from Rye, who’s on his way from the cell lot to pick me up. I text him back, telling him I’ll be right out, and then I take a heavy breath. It’s time to nut up and finally, officially, unambiguously ask Katniss Everdeen out on a date.

I look up and see her walking back to me, her hair re-braided and a moony smile on her face that I know matches the one on mine. _I put that there_ , I think, and suddenly, I’m not afraid at all. It just feels like _this_ … what I have with her right now… was always going to happen. It feels like something fundamental has finally clicked into place.

“So,” I say casually, “I know you’re here to work, but I was wondering if you’re going to have any downtime.”

She takes my hand in hers and swings it slightly, almost bashfully, her eyes glimmering. “Yeah, I should. Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to take you out on a date,” I answer without pausing, and then I add, because it’s true, “several of them. As many as I can get.”

My stomach somersaults as she laughs and nods. “Okay then, yes.” She takes my hand, and we start to walk together toward the exit.

It’s a companionable silence, and I’m struck by how much we look like any other couple walking through the airport, like any other couple starting and ending their journey together.

“Tell me about this date you want to take me on,” she prompts.

A smile tugs onto my face. “Brooklyn Bridge Park. It’s my favorite spot in the city. You get these expansive views of the Manhattan skyline, all the people watching you could possibly want, lots of sunshine. I think we should meet there, grab some lunch at the pier, then walk across the bridge together.”

We walk out into the balmy night, a rush of warm, humid air hitting our faces as we pass through the vestibule onto the arrivals deck. I notice Rye’s crimson SUV already parked several doors down, its hazard lights flashing.

Over the sound of idling engines and the impatient honks of cabs, I hear her reply. “Sounds perfect.”

“Oh, I wasn’t done yet.”

Her face lights up in surprise, and she laughs. “Wow, all right. What else do you have up your sleeve, Peeta?”

God, the way my name rolls off her tongue makes my pulse race. I breath, calming myself, so I can finish describing my plans for our first date. “Then I’d like to go to the gallery exhibition opening.”

“Together?” she asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Together.”

She takes my hands in hers and smiles, leaning up on her toes to give me an approving kiss.

“And then we can grab some late night pizza at Grimaldi’s,” I add as a final thought.

“Sounds like a full day,” she teases. “What if you get tired of me?”

I shake my head at the impossibility of that and answer, “I want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my time in this city with you… If you’ll allow it.”

She smirks, both of us thinking about our first kiss. “Oh, I’ll _allow_ it.” Her gray eyes look like a soft bed I want to crawl into and lose myself, dreaming.

Yeah. I've got it bad.

I hear Rye give an impatient honk, no doubt wanting to get home to the baby.

“Where are you headed now?” I ask her, feeling pressed for time.

She follows my eyes to the SUV and then glances back at me, understanding why I’ve asked. “Bed-Stuy. You?”

“Coney Island.” I sigh heavily. Rye won’t be willing to give her a lift to her hotel. “C’mon, let’s get you a cab, then.”

I grab her bag, and we walk together to the cab stand, which is uncharacteristically, maddeningly empty. I was hoping for a few extra minutes with her.

A yellow cab pulls up the curb, the driver hopping out to gather her bag and place it in the trunk of the sedan.

“What’s your number?” she asks hastily, pulling out her phone and creating a new contact. She punches in my number and then calls me, my phone vibrating in my back pocket. “There,” she says. “Now we can find each other.”

The cabbie wordlessly opens her door and scuttles back to the driver’s seat, buckling in and impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Katniss sighs, walking toward the open car door. I follow her, reaching out to hold onto her hip. She turns around to face me at the feel of my hand on her.

“So,” she says.

“So,” I reply.

We stand there awkwardly, neither one of us wanting to say goodbye. The cabbie clears his throat, and the taxi behind us gives a brusque honk to hurry us along.

I lean in, resting my arm on the hood of the car while slinging my left arm low around her waist, my pinkie resting on the swell of her ass. Her arms wrap around my waist in response, pulling me close to her. Even in the heat and humidity of the night, I can feel a warmth radiating from her that is distinctly, uniquely hers alone.

I kiss her deeply, passionately, trying to memorize her taste and the feel of her lips. "So Saturday?" I murmur in a low voice, kissing her one final time before she can answer.

She nods, her eyes still closed, and gives a small crooked smile. "Mmmm, yes. Saturday. Perfect." Her eyes snap open in alarm when the cabbie behind us yells to “hurry the fuck up already.”

“Welcome to New York, huh?” she grumbles good-naturedly, both of us snickering at the local color. When she laughs, I can feel her stomach muscles tighten, and it’s such an amazing feeling, being able to do that to her, that I know I’m going to do it again. And then again.

“I guess it’s goodbye for now?” My tone is rueful, but I can’t see any way around it, even if all I want is to make love to Katniss one more time and, this time, to feel her body wrapped around mine as we drift off to sleep. There is nowhere and nothing else I want to be doing.

She nods, silently answering. She touches my scruff, running her fingers along it, and, with a blush I can’t explain, she whispers into my ear, “Think you could you keep that for Saturday?”

She doesn’t wait for my reply before she steps into the car. I chuckle softly, shutting the door behind her, and we’re still waving to each other as it peels out unceremoniously into the night. I watch the red tail lights vanish, my heart sinking the further she gets from me.

I miss her already.

When she’s gone, I turn and walk over to Rye’s car, climbing in. He gives me a brief but warm hug and then, as he shifts the car into drive and pulls out, he blurts, “Who was _that_ girl?”

I laugh. So much for hello and the usual pleasantries. I look out the passenger window at the airport as it slides out of view, and I tell him the first thing that comes to mind. “The one.”

He guffaws and punches me in the shoulder, and I can’t fight the stupid smile on my face. Because I found her.

“Peet, you dawg!” he crows at me. “And did you get her number?”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “Pretty sure I've got it."

I can see a plane taking off in the distance, climbing into the sky with apparent ease, headed to some unknown destination, and I think about the unexpected turns life takes sometimes. In my peripheral vision I see Rye shoot me a quizzical look, stymied by my answer and my uncharacteristically quiet mood.

“And she got yours?” he asks me uncertainly.

Laughing again, I nod and scratch the back of my neck. “Yeah. I’d say she does. Finally."

As we cruise down the Belt Parkway, I can’t help myself. I fish my phone out of my pocket and send a text message to her: _I have a date with Katniss Everdeen. Real or not real?_

I put my phone back and attempt to make small talk with Rye until it buzzes in my pocket.

I quickly dig it out, my heart dropping at her reply:

_Not real._

I'm gaping at my phone, trying to make sense of what game she could have possibly been playing with me, when another message comes through from her:

_You have several of them. As many as I can get. <3 _

I laugh, a full-bodied, eye-squinting, shoulder-shaking laugh, and reply:

_Good one. Whew._

I consider whether or not to type it, wondering if I'll sound childish. But then, because I love this girl and always have, I tell her:

_< 3_


End file.
